


Date with a Bridge

by Karl5



Category: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 154,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karl5/pseuds/Karl5
Summary: This is a story about a man who sets out to jump off of a bridge, but encounters Kwai Chang Caine along the way.  They have numerous adventures together that begin just before the beginning of the series and continues on to the end.





	1. Date with a Bridge

DATE WITH A BRIDGE  
by Karl5

It seemed nothing was going to go right for me that day. I had finally made the decision to end it all and jump off the Bourne Bridge. I was on my way there, only a couple of miles out of Provincetown, where Route 6 rises gradually from the sand dunes to the Truro Highlands, when my car engine sputtered and died. I coasted off the road and onto the shoulder, then tried several times to start up again. The battery was fine, but the engine simply wouldn't kick in.

Well, it figured, didn't it? Sometimes you just couldn't catch a break to save your life. I got out of the car and opened the hood.

I'm a man. I should therefore be able to fix cars, right? Wrong. Although I'm familiar with the principle behind internal combustion engines, the real thing is nothing to me but an incomprehensible tangle of grimy wires, greasy metal, and viciously whirling belts and blades. Nevertheless, I felt I had to at least make the effort, before I began hiking back along the highway to P'town.

I glanced up and over the top of my Ford Escort. I could still see the sand dunes in the distance, and behind them, the curve of the town along the shore of the bay. I'd spent so many years of my life in that eccentric little place out at the end of Cape Cod. Hard to believe I was actually leaving both the town and my life.

Although I wasn't really far from the outskirts of the town, I'm not that young anymore and it would be a long walk.

I sighed. That was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? If I were still young and handsome, I wouldn't be making this trip to begin with. Youth and good looks are at a premium in the gay world. Nobody wants an aging fairy. All during the busy summer tourist season, I hadn't been able to find a job, much less anything else.

The stalled car put a definite crimp in my plans. The Bourne Bridge was nearly an hour down the road, where the Cape connects with the mainland of Massachusetts. I had wanted to arrive just after dark, since I've always loved evenings and thought it would be a good time of day to die. Very dramatic to leap off the span of the bridge into the flaming colors of a late summer sunset, right?

Although I stood with one hand on the upraised hood and stared down at my recalcitrant engine, I really wasn't seeing the motor at all. Instead, I was stewing over the events that had led up to my final decision, piling bitterness on top of despair until my own thoughts threatened to topple over and suffocate me.

"Your car . . . will not start?"

Although there was no hint of threat in the quiet voice, I nearly jumped out of my shoes at the unexpected words coming from behind me.

"No shit, Sherlock." I replied, covering my startlement with sarcasm as I turned to face the stranger. Highways are dangerous these days; no telling what sort of weirdoes you might run into.

This particular weirdo didn't appear too intimidating. For one thing, he was at least as old as I am and quite likely a good number of years older. It's generally the young punks who think they're tough that you have to watch out for. I allowed myself to relax a little.

Overall impression of the stranger: he was a leftover love child from the 60's, even down to the sandals, worn clothes, and overlong hair. Just one more aging hippy. There were plenty of those in Provincetown. Along with its large gay population, the place seems to attract all sorts of misfits. At least his kind were harmless. Usually.

He glanced down at my car. "May I?" he asked.

I stepped out of the way and waved a hand at the engine. "Sure, buddy. Why not?"

Likely he knew no more about automobiles than I did. He obviously couldn't afford a car or he wouldn't be out here on foot, carrying what was probably everything he owned slung over his shoulders.

I looked back down the road, squinting against the glare of the lowering sun. Yeah, it would be a long walk back to town.

The stranger reached out and touched the end of a small rubber hose, then brought his fingers up to his nose, rubbing them together. "This is . . . gasoline. Should not this"... he pointed at the end of the hose ... "be attached to something?"

I shifted my head, trying to bring the right part of my bifocals to bear so I could focus. I hate the damn bifocals. Wearing glasses is bad enough, but bifocals? Please!

The engine was in shadows, so it took me a minute to figure out what was what, but, yes, that hose was obviously not connected to anything and fluid dripped out of it. Must be my fuel line. Now, why hadn't I noticed that?

So what does the hose connect to? The only thing in the vicinity that looked even remotely likely was a short metal pipe. I touched it gingerly with one finger. It was wet.

"Here?" I asked, looking sideways at the other man.

He shrugged one shoulder slightly inclining his head a fraction as he did so. Apparently, he knew little more about auto mechanics than I did. I jammed the hose over the pipe. Probably should have a clamp or something to hold it in place, but I could deal with that later. Or maybe not, as long as the car got me as far as the Bourne Bridge.

When I turned the key, the engine came to life. Damn, I'd actually repaired something myself!

Well, not quite by myself. My leftover hippy still stood by the front of the car. He closed the hood carefully, nodded his head to me, turned, and began walking down the road.

I leaned out the window. "Hey, pal! Where're you headed?"

He waved one hand vaguely at the highway. "That way."

"Nothing like having a definite destination in mind, is there?" I mumbled to myself. Oh well, being a drifter is no crime. Or maybe it is, when you consider how vagrants are treated these days.

What the hell, I figured I could be rid of him before I reached the bridge. Or, on second thought, this stranger would make a fine witness. He could tell everyone what happened. I was sure he wouldn't be able to stop me. When we reached the right place, I'd be out of the car and over the railing before he even knew what was happening.

"Want a ride?" I called out.

He actually took a moment to consider before replying, "Yes. Thank you."

As he got in, he put his things in the back seat. An Escort is a small car and he was quite a bit taller than I am. He had to take off his hat in order to fit under the roof. I made a mental note not to hit any of the numerous potholes on Route 6 too hard.

When he closed the door and the automatic shoulder harness slid into place, he looked rather surprised. Not usually a hitchhiker then, or he'd be more familiar with such things.

Putting the car in gear, I drove carefully up onto the pavement.

"My name's Jeremy Joseph Langsten," I offered.

"I am . . . Caine."

"Caine? First name, last name, what?"

"Kwai Chang Caine."

Kwai Chang? I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Chinese? He sure didn't appear any more Asian than I do. Part Chinese, maybe, considering the name, but he really didn't look it. I had a Chinese lover once, so I ought to know. Of course, there was a time when parents were into giving their kids some pretty strange names, but that was in the 60's and he was much too old to be the hapless victim of inventive hippy parents.

"Where are you bound?" I asked.

"California."

I shook my head. "Well, you couldn't get much further away from California and still be in this country. You've got a long trip ahead of you."

"I . . . know."

That didn't tell me much. "So what's in California?"

"Something . . . which must be done."

Okay. But he sounded almost reluctant, as if there were ghosts out there that he was less than anxious to confront. Most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but I'm used to listening for undertones.

"I have been . . . searching," he went on softly, "for something I begin to think I . . . will not find."

"Yeah? Welcome to the club. I've been doing that for most of my life."

I hadn't intended the words to sound so bitter. They just came out that way. I saw his eyes flicker sideways as he studied me, even though I kept my gaze on the road. I'm used to watching people watch me. You get a lot of practice doing that in the bars.

I wondered what he saw. Could he tell I was gay? Most people seemed to be able to.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a swish or a flaming queen. I'm just one of those guys that can't quite pass for straight, even if I try. I don't know what it is, but people seem to know. Maybe I'm too neat or prissy or something. Yes, I do wear a small gold hoop in my left ear. But so many men wear earrings these days that it doesn't mean the same as it did years ago. The earring certainly isn't what tips people off.

As a child, I was the class bookworm and sissy boy, uninterested in sports and all those guy things. Your basic 98 pound weakling -- until the years accumulated and my pants started getting too tight around the waist. Oh, you still couldn't call me fat, nor even chubby. But the slender, willowy, pretty boy I once was is gone for good. The fact that it happens to all of us is no consolation, when you’re the one it's happening to.

And especially if you happen to be a gay man. You only think women have it tough in this regard. A mature woman is accorded some small measure of respect by our society. But an aging fairy? Forget it! I'm not saying this is right. I'm only saying it's reality. Of course, if you've got lots of money, you can buy respect, and what passes for love, same as you can in the straight world. But I had neither youth nor riches, and it was going to be all downhill from here on out.

That was a major part of the reason I had made a date with the bridge. I didn't want to wait until I was a pitiful old geezer out on the streets. Better to end it now, while I still had a few shreds of dignity left and my life savings, such as they were, in my wallet. (Didn't want them to pull me from the river and think I was a destitute bum, after all. Ten thousand dollars isn't much these days, but it looks pretty impressive in the form of five hundred dollar bills.)

Okay, so maybe getting old doesn't sound like a very good reason to off yourself. But, tell me, have you ever been there?

No job for almost a year, since the gallery where I had worked had been sold to new owners. Most of my friends dead, of AIDS or other less popularized tragedies. Do you know just how dark it gets, when nobody seems to want you for anything? Sooner or later, you don't even want yourself. Have you watched your money trickle away, with no prospects for getting more in the future? Have you felt the panic that eats your soul at the thought of being poor in this so called affluent society?

Perhaps you have, and you've been able to cling to hope and courage just the same. Well, I couldn't. As I already told you, I'm a sissy and a coward. When the darkness in my soul got just too dark, I chose what I thought would be the easy way out.

Look into your own soul on those awful nights when you lie awake and stare wide-eyed into a dreaded future, your heart pounding in panic and your thoughts unable to turn away from whatever constitutes your own particular nightmare; when the sun doesn't rise no matter how long you wait, and the world around you grows teeth and claws. Then tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.

Even as these thoughts ran through my mind, Caine sat silently watching me drive. "Something . . . is wrong?" he said at last.

Now how the devil did he know?

"I'm not sure you'd understand."

"If you . . . do not speak, . . . I will certainly not understand."

He was making me nervous. "I didn't ask for your understanding, did I?"

"No. You did not. Forgive me."

Polite bastard, wasn't he? I was rude, and he was apologizing. Now I really felt bad.

It got quiet then. We passed the exit to Truro, then Wellfleet. The silence didn't seem to bother Caine, but I couldn't stand it any longer.

"So how about you? What were you doing in P'town?" I asked. Easy way to make conversation: ask the other person about himself. "Can't recall seeing you around anywhere."

"I have been in . . . Provincetown . . . for little more than . . . a week. I came . . . on a sailboat."

"You own a boat?" My estimation of my passenger went up a couple of notches.

The idea seemed to amuse him, since he gave a short laugh. "No. I do not . . . own the boat. I was . . . helping those who do. They needed . . . crew . . . to bring the boat from Maine."

"You can sail?" That would still be more of an accomplishment than I would have given him credit for.

He shrugged. "It is not . . . difficult . . . to become one with the wind and the ocean."

I'd done a little sailing myself, but I'd never heard anyone describe it quite like that before. "Uh . . . yeah. I guess."

"We . . . stopped in Boston. While I was there . . . I heard some . . . news that made me decide to return to California."

That was the longest string of words I'd heard him put together since we'd met. But he'd said "return", hadn't he? I picked up on that.

"You're from California, then?"

"I have spent . . . much of my life there, yes."

Figures. Another place famous for kooks and weirdoes. 

"Got family there?"

I'd have sworn he winced at that, but I didn't actually see him move.

"No," was all he said.

Although I kept on facing the road, my eyes went sideways, searching out his hands. He wore what looked to be a wedding band on the proper finger. That meant there was, or had been, a wife somewhere. Still, that "no" had sounded awfully final. I was treading on painful ground here, but I just couldn't seem to keep my big mouth shut. Perhaps I hurt so badly myself that I wanted to make sure other people hurt as well. You get that way sometimes, if you're down low enough. Besides, I was curious. One of my many faults.

"So where do you call home?" I probed.

That was apparently an easier question for him to answer. The gloom and doom had left his voice this time and he was smiling a little. "Nowhere . . . and everywhere."

Cute. But what it meant was that he was living my own worst nightmare: to be homeless. Guess that's a lot of people's worst nightmare, these days.

It occurred to me then that he might justifiably decide to play tit for tat and start asking me questions that I didn't want to answer, so I left it at that.

For another long while we drove in silence. If I had been alone, I'd probably have turned on the radio, just so I wouldn't have to listen to my own thoughts. But I figured that might annoy my passenger. He didn't look like the type who listened to rock music.

The exit for Eastham came and went, then we had passed Orleans also. Halfway there now. It wouldn't be much longer before we'd reach the end of the Cape. I was running out of miles, and out of time.

When I saw the sign for an upcoming rest area, I pulled over. Yeah, I still intended to keep that date with the bridge, but the closer we got, the more nervous I became. And when I get nervous, I have to visit the little boys' room.

It was one of those nice rest areas, with proper bathrooms, info kiosk, snack machines, the works. Once it had been a popular cruising area for gay guys, until the AIDS epidemic. I test negative for HIV, but that's sheer luck. By rights and all the statistics, I should have been dead a long time ago. The idea that I was living on borrowed time was kind of funny, considering I was now on my way to pay off what I'd borrowed.

Still, I couldn't help smiling at the memories I had of this place. That had been long ago, before the gay community learned that unprotected, promiscuous sex could equal death. Sometimes it seems that straight folks, particularly the young ones, haven't quite figured out that equation yet. Perhaps when they've buried enough of their friends, they'll get the picture.

The parking lot was virtually deserted, the only other vehicle there being an electric blue pickup truck endowed with several extra tons of chrome parked down at the far end. I pulled into a spot closer to the restrooms.

"You gotta go?" I asked Caine.

He shook his head, so I left him in the car and walked up the cement path and into the bathroom. It looked the same as I remembered it, but only ghosts hung around the urinals and stalls.

By the time I had finished and was walking out the door, my head was down, along with my thoughts.

"Hey, faggot! What's happening?"

That caught my attention. I glanced up and found myself confronted by three young guys standing in the shadows around the men's room door. The one who had spoken to me lounged against the wall, beer can in hand. I ignored them and tried to walk on past.

Needless to say, I didn't get too far before someone blocked my way. This one had a pretty face, but the muscles bulging under his faded t-shirt belied any sense of softness.

"Donnie asked you a question, pal," he said, sneering. "It ain't polite not to answer."

"I'm not a faggot," I lied cautiously. They probably wouldn't believe me, but it was worth a try.

Pretty Boy laughed and shoved me backwards. I stumbled into Donnie, who still leaned against the wall. He grabbed my arm, hard.

"Sure you are," Pretty Boy growled. "We've seen you going into the bars. You even made a pass at me once."

Had I? I couldn't remember the face, but it might have happened. I usually avoid straight men, but anything is possible, if you're drunk enough. And I've been drunk enough on occasion, since I lost my job.

"I think he needs a lesson in honesty," the third punk said, catching my other arm. He was younger than his friends, probably still in his teens and obviously trying to impress the older guys.

I didn't bother to protest. I knew what was coming. It had happened to me before. Begging wouldn't help and sweet reason wouldn't impress them. I was about to get my ass kicked big time. I thought of all the money in my wallet and just hoped it wouldn't occur to them to rob me also.

Of course, if I'd thought fast enough, I might have been able to get ahold of the cylinder of mace I carried on my keychain. But it was too late now. My keys were in my hip pocket and my hands were already out of action. I never do think of things like that until it's too late.

Pretty Boy took up a position in front of me. His left arm drew back, fist clenched at his side. As he stepped forward into the punch, I managed to jerk my body slightly to my left, turning as far as I could in order to give with the blow and keep him from connecting directly with my solar plexus. Having the wind knocked out of you is no fun; I'd prefer bruised ribs.

He didn't seem to notice that his blow hadn't quite connected, so I did my best imitation of being hit in the stomach, doubling over and gasping for breath. The gasp was real enough. Even off center, that had hurt.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his right fist coming at me. Pain exploded through the side of my face, but I went with it as well as I could, letting my head turn. I tasted blood, and deliberately allowed my mouth to go slack so the blood would run down my chin. That might fool them into thinking I was hurt worse than I was. If he didn't hit me in the face again, my glasses might not get broken.

If I'd had any guts, I'd've spit in his face, but that would only encourage them. I'd found that out a long time ago in grade school. Bullies don't change a lot when they grow up; they just become capable of inflicting more serious damage.

The others laughed and cheered Pretty Boy on. I ignored their taunts, watching covertly for the next blow so I could be ready. When it came, I wasn't prepared for what happened next. Not by a long shot.

Pretty Boy stumbled abruptly sideways and landed sprawled on the grass. I had been so focused on my attacker that I hadn't even seen Caine kick him, but my brain held an afterimage of my erstwhile passenger pulling his foot back in and planting himself in front of me.

"Let him go," Caine said softly to the two punks who still held my arms.

They looked at each other uncertainly and might have obeyed, if Pretty Boy hadn't been already back on his feet and charging at Caine from the side. I started to yell a warning, but I could have saved my breath. Caine simply stepped backward at the last minute, leaving Pretty Boy to careen past him and run full tilt into the wall of the building.

This was too much for Donnie. Releasing my arm, he stepped forward and took a swing at the older man, who brushed the fist aside as if he were shooing away a fly. When Donnie tried again, Caine grabbed his hand, twisting it in and around and bending the wrist into what must have been a painful angle, judging by the expression on Donnie's face.

"I do not wish to fight you. Let my friend go and we will leave."

"No way, mister," Donnie said through clenched teeth. He jerked his knee up, aiming for Caine's groin.

He had no more success with that maneuver than he'd had with anything else. With a quick twist and a sweep of one leg, Caine knocked the other man to the ground.

Then he looked at the youngest punk, who still held one of my arms. Raising one eyebrow questioningly, Caine held out his hands, palms up. He smiled.

The youngster shook his head and literally shoved me into the arms of my rescuer. Pretty Boy still sat against the wall. Blood ran from his nose, but he wiped it on his sleeve. He looked about ready to get up and give it another try.

Caine turned me around and started us down the path. "We must leave. Quickly."

I tried to say something clever, but that only made more blood ooze from my mouth. On television, you can knock someone around and they don't even get bruised, much less bleed. That's not how it works in real life.

Caine half carried and half dragged me toward the car.

I never saw the boy coming up behind us, but Caine must have. He kicked backwards without even looking around. I turned just in time to see the youngest of my attackers double over and collapse.

We reached the car without any more trouble. I pulled the keys from my pocket and held them out to Caine. The side of my face was swelling and I felt in no shape to get behind the wheel.

"I . . . do not drive."

"Great," I mumbled, as he helped me into the drivers' seat. He was around the car and in the other side before I even had time to turn the key. For an old dude, he could move awfully fast when he wanted to.

I took off out of that parking lot like a teenager in his first drag race. By the time we hit the highway, I was doing eighty, easy.

My side hurt bad, especially when I took a deep breath, and I knew my face looked ghastly. With the tip of my tongue, I could feel the gash inside my cheek, where the skin had been cut against my teeth. But none of that bothered me, not now. I had just seen my would-be attackers laid out like so many rag dolls. For the first time in my life, the bullies had gotten what they deserved. That thought itself was enough to keep me flying almost as fast as my car.

I wiped my bleeding mouth on my shirtsleeve and turned to Caine.

"That was terrific!" I enthused. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

He did that little shrug again. "It is . . . not important."

I swerved wildly around a car, coming entirely too close to its rear fender. The Escort fishtailed and I knew I was driving like a maniac. But I didn't care. All I wanted to do was talk about the miracle that had just happened to me.

My passenger obviously wasn't what he seemed. But I couldn't for the life of me figure out just what the hell he was.

"Not important?!" I almost shouted. "To get that good, you'd have to study for years. Maybe a lifetime. Sure wish I had your skill. I've always been something of a coward when it came to stuff like that."

"It does not take . . . courage. It takes training."

I shook my head. "I couldn't learn to do that. Not in a million years."

"In a million years, one may learn . . . many things."

I grinned inanely, despite the stab of pain in my cheek. "You know what I mean."

"Yes."

He had a strange way of saying that word. He seemed to draw it out, rather than clip it off, as most people do.

"You know, I studied karate when I was a kid. I was terrible at it." Funny, I hadn't thought about that for years, but the words popped out of my mouth.

"This is not . . . karate. It is kung fu."

This time I was the one who shrugged. That hurt too. "Same difference."

"No."

"Okay, whatever you say." Hey, I wasn't about to disagree with him, right?

"Why . . . did you want to learn . . . karate?"

"I didn't. My dad made me take lessons. Thought it would make a man out of me. I smiled and shook my head again. "It didn't."

My chest hurt and it was hard to get a decent breath, but that didn't matter. The hell with the pain. It was only my body that hurt. My mind was somewhere else.

I passed another car, too fast and too close.

"Jeremy, you are not driving . . . safely. Pull over"-- he pointed to a sign high above the road at an upcoming exit -- "at that restaurant."

"I'm okay."

"You are not . . . okay."

I would have argued, but I realized he was right. There was darkness around the edges of my vision and Caine's voice seemed to be echoing down a tunnel filled with cotton. I hit the brake and drove carefully off the exit ramp. The ringing in my ears meant I was going to faint, but I made it into a parking spot. Fumbling for the lever, I reclined my seat and laid back. That was an improvement right there. My breathing came a little easier and the encroaching darkness drew back a ways.

Then Caine's fingers touched my battered ribs and I almost screamed. Must be hurt worse than I had thought.

"Lie still," he said. "This will hurt."

It did. Don't ask me why I trusted him to do anything more than call 911 and get me an ambulance, but he seemed to know what he was doing. The stabbing pain eased off and I found I could get a decent lungful of air again. My chest still hurt, but not the same way it had before.

As I concentrated on the luxury of breathing again, Caine seemed to be trying to get at something in the pouch he carried slung over his shoulder. Not an easy task for a big man in a small car, hampered by a seat belt and shoulder harness.

He was facing away from me when he asked, "Why . . . did those men . . . attack you?"

Could he honestly not know? I decided to go ahead and bite the bullet. The worst he could do would be jump out of the car in disgust, right? "I'm gay."

"Yes." Matter of fact, as if it were no surprise. He was still searching through the contents of his bag.

There, you see? Like I said, people can tell. Or perhaps he had simply heard the names those punks had called me.

"They're gay-bashers," I went on, somewhat encouraged by his lack of reaction. "It happens a lot these days, although not so much here on the Cape as in the cities. It's becoming a national pastime."

"Why . . . do they hate you?"

"I don't know. Why don't you go back and ask them?" Then I realized he was perfectly serious. He really didn't understand. "Look, I'm sorry, Caine. I didn't mean to snap at you. There are lots of theories about homophobia. I honestly don't know which of them, if any, are true." He must have found what he was looking for, because he stopped digging around in that shoulder bag of his and turned to me.

"They fear you," he said.

I would have laughed, but I was afraid that would make my cracked ribs hurt again.

"Right," I replied skeptically. "They're so afraid of me that they beat the shit out of me."

He just nodded his head. He evidently meant it.

"What are they so afraid of, then?" I asked.

He did his half shrug again. He did that a lot.

"Perhaps . . . of seeing you . . . in themselves?"

"Well, that's one of the theories," I conceded.

"They attempt to destroy you . . . in order that they may destroy . . . that part of themselves that they fear may be . . . like you."

Definitely not the usual conclusion for a straight man to come to.

"You really think so?" I asked.

"Yes." He reached over and turned my head towards him so he could see my bruised left cheek. "Your mouth is . . . still bleeding?"

"A little, yeah." I guess I'd been swallowing the blood without thinking about it while we'd been talking.

He had a leaf of some sort in his hand, crushing it between his fingers. He held it out to me. "Put this against the cut. It will . . . stop the bleeding."

Well, why not? I stuffed the crumpled leaf into my mouth and against my cheek feeling rather like a chipmunk.

Cautiously, I pulled my seat back into an upright position. Yeah, that was okay. I could manage. The faintness was gone and the inside of my cheek now felt kind of numb.

"I think I can drive."

"Would you not like . . . to clean up first?"

I glanced down at the blood stains on the front of my shirt and shuddered to think what a mess my face must be. "Yeah. Good idea. But I really don't want to walk into a restaurant looking like this."

Caine nodded solemnly. "I . . . shall go in and get . . . some water."

He was gone before I could tell him that restaurants aren't too happy about folks who only want water. Oh well, let him deal with that. I had a problem of my own. He'd obviously expect me to change my shirt. Unless I wanted him to see the scars on my arms, I'd better tend to that before he came back.

My knees shook a bit as I got out of the car, but I made it to the trunk and pulled a fresh long-sleeved shirt from the small suitcase I had packed so carefully. These were the clothes I had picked out and brought with me specifically to be buried in, but there was no help for it now. Someone would just have to come up with a shirt for my corpse. I sincerely hoped they would have good taste.

By the time Caine got back, carrying two paper cups of water and a sheaf of paper towels, I was tucking my new shirt into my pants. He managed to get my face pretty well cleaned up. When I checked out the results in the rearview mirror, I almost looked human again.

"Let's get going," I said, feeling almost chipper.

Starting up the car again, I got us back on Route 6, no longer driving like a hyped-up maniac. My passenger sat silently watching the scenery go by.

"Caine," I said at last.

"Something is . . . troubling you?"

"Yeah. I enjoyed that," I confessed uneasily. "Oh, I don't mean I liked being beaten up. I mean I enjoyed seeing you wipe up the floor with those punks. I only wish it had been me who had done it."

He sighed and said softly, "There is no grace in victory. The one who glorifies it must revel in bloodshed."

That sounded too pat. And besides, he didn't hesitate between the words. "Where'd you get that?"

"It is from the Tao Te Ching."

"Oh. I think I read that a long time ago, when I was in college. Mostly, I guess I agree, at least in my head. I'm not a violent man." Now, there's an understatement! "But when you've seen the bad guys win way too often, the way I have --"

"I . . . understand."

"I doubt you do, if you can fight like that."

"Not all things . . . are solved . . . by physical combat. I have seen . . . evil . . . triumph over good . . . far too many times."

He stared straight out the front window, but I knew from his voice that he wasn't seeing the road. I got quiet then, leaving him to his thoughts.

Somewhere along the way, evening had arrived. The last of a bright sunset faded into shadows on the highway ahead. By the time we reached the bridge, it would be completely dark. That wasn't the way I'd had it planned. Well, there was nothing to be done now. Nighttime would be good too, with the lights of the bridge sparkling in the water below.

I glanced at the pine woods on either side of the road, the graceful branches spread with gossamer webs of shadows and dusk.

Damn! Seeing it all for the last time seemed to have turned me into a poet. The world had no right to be so beautiful. Not now, when all I wanted was to leave it behind.

It was only then that I noticed the headlights in my rearview mirror coming up behind us much too fast.

"We've got company," I told Caine as I recognized the chrome-encrusted truck I had last seen parked at the rest area.

The truck pulled up in the lane next to me. Donnie gave me a nasty grin and pointed to the side of the highway.

No way was I about to pull over. I hit the gas, but the truck easily kept up, edging closer and closer until I would have to pull over or be sideswiped. I slowed down, hoping they'd go past. I hadn't reckoned on their bringing in reinforcements. Another truck rode my tail, falling back only far enough to avoid hitting me as I slowed.

"What . . . are they trying to do?" Caine asked.

"Force us off the road," I replied grimly, hands clenched on the steering wheel. Pretty Boy's truck paced us again, edging closer.

"Let them."

"Are you crazy?!"

"No. You cannot continue like this. Pull over."

Much as I hated to admit it, he was right. My little car was no match for that souped-up truck. All it had to do was sideswipe me lightly and I'd lose control.

With no other choice, I continued to brake and drove over onto the shoulder. Both trucks followed us, one pulling up in front and the other behind as I slowed down.

The car had barely come to a stop when Caine opened the door and got out.

"Jeremy, . . . come out this side . . . quickly."

I levered myself painfully over the gearshift and stumbled to my feet next to him before anyone had gotten out of the trucks. Caine grabbed my arm and pulled me rapidly over to the sparse cover afforded by some low bushes not far from the roadway.

"Stay here," he said, as he turned back to the parked vehicles.

He meant to take them on by himself.

"Caine, no --"

I grabbed his arm, but he literally shrugged me off. Then the space beside me was empty.

Well, why shouldn't I stay put? I was no fighter. That had already been established. I squatted down in the shadows and looked over the top of the bush.

Pretty Boy, Donnie, and the youngster piled out of their truck. This time they carried baseball bats and pieces of pipe. Three more men got out of the other truck, carrying similar implements. This was getting beyond your ordinary gay-bashing. These folks were looking to do some serious harm.

Faced with the real thing, I more or less forgot I had been planning to be dead tonight anyway. Perhaps if I ducked way down behind this bush, they wouldn't notice me.

I didn't have to worry. Caine deliberately let them see him, stepping out from the cover of the low shrubs as he ran along the shoulder away from where I was hiding. They fell for it, following him up the road.

Jeremy, are you going to let him save your ass again? I asked myself in disgust.

Yes, I answered. He has the training to do it. I don't. He'll be fine.

This didn't satisfy the voice in my head. I don't care if he's Bruce Lee. One unarmed man doesn't take on a mob like that. Not and come out of it in one piece. Go help him.

Oh, shit! I replied as I conceded the point.

Right. I'm going to help him. How? My ribs already hurt just from the exertion of climbing out of the car, and I was no match for even one of our attackers. Big help I could be.

Then I remembered the little black cylinder on my keychain. I reached into my back pocket, praying I hadn't left the keys in the car in my haste. When my fingers closed on the warm leather case that covered my cylinder of mace, I smiled. Pulling it out, I twisted the top so it was unlocked. If nothing else, I should be able to even the odds a little with this.

I crept as silently as I could through the shadows in the direction Caine had taken. The last man from the second truck hadn't yet caught up with the action. He'd apparently gotten tangled in some brambles, judging by the way he was cursing and slashing with his knife at some vines clinging to his ankles.

Great. They had knives too. Well, I'd probably never get a better chance. Without even allowing myself time to reconsider, I stepped up next to him and sprayed him full in the face with my secret weapon. He dropped like a stone, the knife falling from his hand as he clutched at his burning face. I guess he was trying to scream, but it came out as more of a suffocated gurgle as the spray interfered with his breathing. If I hadn't known that mace isn't usually lethal, I'd have been afraid he was in real trouble. As it was, I grinned smugly as I left my very first victim writhing on the ground behind me.

There was clearly something going on further up the road, because I heard angry voices and people stomping around. Pretty Boy and company must have caught up to Caine. I could only hope he was having as much luck against them as he'd had last time. Maybe he wouldn't need any more help from me.

It must have been adrenaline kicking in, because I wasn't afraid as I snuck closer to the main melee. I also wasn't conscious of any pain, and I knew that couldn't be right. Time seemed to stretch out in the odd way it has of doing when you're in a dangerous situation and I saw everything with a terrible clarity.

Keeping to the shadows as much as I could, I arrived just in time to see Pretty Boy charge directly at Caine. Donnie was already out of action, sprawled on the ground off to one side. The youngster stood watching uncertainly, but he held a vicious-looking hunting knife. It reflected a sharp glint of brightness in the glare of the headlights of a passing car. I saw the remaining men from the second truck come up alongside him, one of them with a bat and the other brandishing a tire iron.

Caine went down under the weight of Pretty Boy's attack, but I'd seen him put one foot up into the younger man's belly as he rolled backwards, so it was with no very great surprise that I watched Pretty Boy fly head over heels -- or should I say heels over head? ... over Caine's body. He crashed to a landing almost on top of where I crouched behind a myrtle bush. I moved hastily aside, keeping one eye on Pretty Boy as I watched Caine.

He was on his feet again and ready as the youngster and the newcomers attacked, almost simultaneously. Caine simply stepped out of the boy's way, grabbing his hand and twisting the knife free as he charged past, now off balance and unable to stop himself from tripping over Caine's outstretched leg. Caine ended up in a half crouch just as one of the others rushed forward, his tire iron already aimed at the older man's head. Caine ducked in and under the blow, effortlessly levering his opponent over his back. The newcomer landed flat on his back on the ground, the air knocked out of him.

Damn, but Caine made it look so easy! It was almost as if he were dancing instead of fighting. I was totally caught up in watching him, but as he turned to confront his next opponent, I realized that Pretty Boy had regained his feet and was standing almost next to me. He held an automatic pistol pointed at my friend's back. Unless Pretty Boy was an exceptionally lousy shot or Kwai Chang Caine could dodge bullets, he wouldn't even see it coming, it was all over.

I took a deliberately noisy step out of the shadows and gave the young man the eye, asking in my most provocatively swishy tone, "Hey, Pretty Boy, wanna fuck?"

Fury contorted his face as he spun toward me. I prayed there was more mace left in my little cylinder as I raised my hand to aim it at his face. I was too slow. Pretty Boy caught my wrist in a grip I knew I couldn't break.

He grinned and squeezed my hand hard, knowing he had me. I did my best not to scream as pain lanced through my captured wrist, determined not to drop my mace.

"At least your friend over there can fight like a man, faggot. You're not even worth a bullet," he sneered. Flipping the pistol around so he held it by the barrel, he swung it up above his head.

As the gun slashed down towards my face, I raised my foot and kicked him as hard as I could in the knee. If I'd had time to think about it, I never would have done it. It was pure instinct.

No, not instinct: memory. I had practiced that particular move many times in my long-ago karate class, never actually believing I'd do it for real.

Much to my surprise, I watched Pretty Boy collapse to the ground, clutching at his knee. Kneeling down, I gave him a shot of mace right in the face for good measure, before I took the gun from his hand and tossed it into the bushes.

When I regained my feet, I found Caine standing almost on top of me, holding a tire iron in his hand. He looked from me to the man at his feet. Pretty Boy was simultaneously struggling to breathe and scrubbing at his stinging face with his hands, as he thrashed around.

Frowning in puzzlement, Caine asked, "How . . . did you do that?"

I held up my little black cylinder. "Ever hear of mace?"

"Ah!" he said. For a moment, I almost thought he was going to kneel down and try to help our erstwhile attacker.

"Don't bother," I said. "The stuff does no permanent damage. He'll be fine -- after a while. Let's get gone before we have to fight them off all over again."

He wasn't ready to leave it at that. Squatting down, he quickly checked out my gasping victim, then rose to his feet.

"I believe he . . . will be all right, but his knee . . . may be dislocated."

I shrugged. "Then let his friends take him to the hospital. It isn't far from here. He was going to shoot you in the back, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I . . . noticed," Caine said softly.

"Then I rest my case." I turned away, ready to head for my car.

Caine stopped me by putting a hand on my arm. He nudged Pretty Boy gently with his foot. "Now . . . is your chance . . . to see what true victory is like, Jeremy."

"What do you mean?"

"He is . . . helpless. You could . . . kick him again. Or hit him . . . with something." He offered me the tire iron he still held in one hand.

This was a new thought to me, but not an entirely unpleasant one. "Yeah. I could do that, couldn't I?"

"Yes."

I took the tire iron, because that seemed to be what he expected me to do. I couldn't read the expression on his face. For all I knew, he'd bash Pretty Boy himself if I didn't.

I looked down at my prospective victim. The man had recovered his senses enough to notice me standing over him, but his eyes were streaming tears and he was still fighting for breath, not to mention suffering from the damage I had done to his knee. I smiled, letting him know the tables had been turned.

For as long as I could remember, Pretty Boy and all the others like him had made my life miserable. Now I had a chance to get a little of that back. All the years and all the bullies. Boys older and bigger than me, men stronger than me. All the gays beaten, and even sometimes killed, because straight men like Pretty Boy just couldn't handle the fact that we existed.

Maybe if I hit him hard enough, I could stop him from ever hurting one of us again. Maybe if I hit him hard enough, I could bash some understanding and tolerance into that thick head.

Maybe if I hit him hard enough, I would succeed in getting rid of all the fear and hatred I had learned to keep locked inside my heart for all these years.

Maybe if I hit him hard enough, I could fracture his skull and cause sufficient brain damage to turn him into a vegetable. Maybe if I hit him hard enough, I could kill him.

Maybe if I hit him hard enough, I would succeed in turning myself into the same kind of dishonorable and vicious coward that he was. Maybe if I hit him hard enough, I could turn myself into something no better than my enemy.

I tossed the tire iron aside.

"I think I'll pass on this one," I said, not sure what response to expect from Caine. Had I just proved to him what a wimp I was?

Apparently not, since he smiled and put his arm around my shoulder as we walked over to my car.

When we were once more back on the road, Caine asked me in that quiet way he had, "Is victory still . . . so sweet to you, Jeremy?"

"No," I said slowly. "No, it's not. Yeah, they deserved what they got. But. . . ."

"Ah! There is always . . . a 'but', . . . is there not?"

I nodded. Doing my best to imitate his manner of speaking, I said softly, " 'There is no grace in victory. The one who glorifies it must revel in bloodshed.' " Grinning, I added, "Did I get that right?" I could hear the amusement in his voice when he replied, "Yes." Then he turned serious. "Why . . . did you not . . . remain hidden in the bushes?"

"Because, damn it, you got me out of trouble once already. And I didn't want you to get hurt."

He smiled slightly. "I would not . . . have been hurt."

Well, maybe not. But then again, Pretty Boy had been behind him with the gun, and Caine hadn't seemed as if he'd noticed, despite what he had said. But maybe he would have gotten Pretty Boy anyway. Maybe he was that good.

"It's not only that," I went on, not sure if I could put the rest of it into words. "If you save my ass -- and don't get me wrong, I really appreciate it -- I am not really saved at all." The way I was groping for words, it was starting to sound like the way he talked. "I mean, unless I can do it for myself, even if I got the shit knocked out of me in the process, it really isn't any good. I've got to stand up for myself, not hide behind someone else, if I'm going to respect myself."

He looked at me strangely but said nothing, so I blundered on, still searching for the right way to put it. "I'm not saying you shouldn't defend other people, if you can. But sooner or later, they have to defend themselves don't they?"

He thought about that for a while. "What you say . . . is correct. But . . . to stand up for yourself . . . is not always . . . easy. You can . . . be hurt."

"Well, even so, at least you haven't just given up and quit."

My voice trailed off as I realized what I had just said. The approach ramp to the Bourne Bridge loomed ahead in the glare of my headlights.

"We are not just . . . talking about . . . a street fight anymore, . . . are we, Jeremy?" he asked softly.

No, we weren't. I stared at the crescent arch of the bridge ahead and barely managed to choke out, "I'm a coward, a sissy."

"You could have . . . remained hidden, and yet . . . you did not," he replied.

I couldn't answer him. I was too busy driving up onto the bridge.

Quit -- or stand up and fight back? Which shall it be, Jeremy, old boy? I asked myself.

Life had suddenly turned just too interesting to give up. I had actually done something that took courage. If I could face that fear, why not the other fears? I knew this good feeling might not last, but for now, the darkness seemed to have lifted slightly.

Before I knew it, I was coming up on the spot where I had intended to pull over and jump. Caine had gone very quiet. Although he wasn't looking at me, I got this strange feeling of totally focused attention.

And then I was past my chosen place and still driving.

Well, if I wasn't going to die just now, what was I going to do? Turn around and head back to P'town? Why? There was nothing left for me there. I had everything I owned in the car and all my meager wealth in my hip pocket.

Caine faced sideways looking at me directly now. He put into words the question I was still asking myself. "Jeremy . . . where will you go . . . from here?"

Exit signs appeared as the bridge sloped down to the mainland. I pulled up my mental road map, considering possibilities. Route 3 north to the Mass Pike, then across New York state.

Yeah, that would work. There was a southern route also, but who wants to go south in the summertime? I've been there already, and besides, my car's air conditioner was unreliable at best.

I swung the Escort onto the exit ramp, clutching the wheel far more tightly than was necessary. Not daring to look straight at the man beside me, I said nonchalantly, "West. You still with me?"

It seemed to take an eternity for him to answer, although it was probably just a few seconds.

"Yes. . . ." The pause was longer than usual this time. I knew he had more to say, so I just waited. "I . . . have no money."

Was that all? The breath I had been holding escaped in a quiet sigh. "Don't worry about that. The hospital bill I would have paid for that beating I didn't get back at the rest area will more than cover expenses. I owe you that, at least."

And perhaps a lot more than that, I thought. The superstructure of the bridge was still visible behind us.

I stepped on the accelerator. The darkness had begun to lift from my soul, for some reason that I still did not fully understand. If it resumed, there were plenty of other bridges ahead, even if -- I glanced sideways at Caine's profile, lit up eerily in the flicker of the passing lights -- I ended up driving as far as the Golden Gate to find one.


	2. To Face the Tiger

TO FACE THE TIGER

"There comes a time when one must turn and face the tiger."  
Kwai Chang Caine

 

Approximately 1,590,000 gallons of water flow over Niagara Falls every second. From where I stood on the deck of the MAID OF THE MIST, I could have sworn it was all falling on me. I pulled the hood of the raincoat further forward over my face, trying in vain to shield my already splattered glasses, but that didn't do much good. Damp and uncomfortable though I was, all that water still made for an impressive sight, as the little boat chugged gamely into the turbulent pool inside the broad curve of the Horseshoe Falls. The much smaller American Falls with its rubble-strewn base hadn't been nearly as overwhelming as this. Here we were, surrounded by walls of crashing white water, with the noise of the torrent shouting its wordless cry into our ears.

I looked sideways at Kwai Chang Caine and wondered what he was thinking as he stood there next to me, both hands resting on the railing while his head was cocked back, staring up as if he could see the top of the Falls through the cloud of moisture hanging over us. He hadn't bothered to pull up the hood of his raincoat, so his rather thin hair was thoroughly soaked and plastered to his head. He didn't seem to mind being wet, though. He had this sort of peaceful, lost-in-space look on his face. For some reason, that annoyed the hell out of me.

Looking back on it, I can see that my irrational sense of annoyance was the first sign that the darkness was returning, after the brief respite I had been granted. At the time, I figured I was just overtired and out of sorts, after having driven all the way from Cape Cod to Niagara Falls with only a few hours of uncomfortable sleep in my car.

Some of you may perhaps remember my previous account of how I had offered Caine a ride just outside Provincetown and traveled with him to the bridge at the end of the Cape, where I had planned to jump off and end my life, but didn't. You may remember how the two of us fought off some gay-bashers along the way. (Don't get the wrong idea; they weren't after Caine. I'm the gay guy they were trying to bash, and I've got the bruises to prove it. And, okay, Caine did most of the above-mentioned fighting off, not me.)

At any rate, he told me he was headed for California and I had more or less decided to take him there, since I had nothing better to do with my life at the time anyway. So what were we doing in Niagara Falls? Well, it was late summer and I had originally chosen a northern route rather than face the heat of the South. Cutting through Canada and back into Michigan looked interesting. I'd never been to Niagara Falls, so I decided that would be our first stopover. Caine didn't have any objections. After all, it was my car.

It might have been better had I chosen another way, but I didn't, so there we were playing tourist on the MAID OF THE MIST, at the foot of Horseshoe Falls, at my instigation.

And I was annoyed, because he seemed to be at peace with the world, while I wasn't. I looked up, trying to see whatever it was he saw, but that only allowed more water to splatter my glasses. An eerie feeling stole ever me, as I stared up at the cataract. Within all the violence and chaos of the rushing water, there did seem to be a kind of peace to be found. I wondered idly what it would be like to go over the Horseshoe Falls. Immersed in that wild water, it would take only a moment to plunge over the brink. Much nicer than falling through thin air off a bridge. Death would be quick, and not overly painful. There was a deep pool at the base of the Horseshoe, unlike the American Falls, with its fringe of boulders and rubble.

The fretful wail of a baby grated across my fantasy of oblivion and peace, pulling me back to the present reality of a boat full of tourists. Not far from where we stood, a young mother tried vainly to quiet her infant's screams, while a toddler pulled at the edge of her raincoat, insistently demanding attention.

"Damn kids," I muttered. "They shouldn't be allowed out in public until they're civilized."

"It is the ... nature ... of a baby to cry," Caine said softly.

Did I detect a note of admonishment in his voice? What gave him the right to lecture me about babies?

Even as I tried to think of a snappy comeback, he walked over and hunkered down next to the toddler, drawing the boy's attention away from his mother and allowing her to deal with the infant. Over the rush of the water, I couldn't hear what Caine said to the child. I was actually quite surprised that the woman didn't make any objection to this stranger talking to her child. She didn't even seem to mind when Caine lifted the toddler in his arms, holding him up high so the youngster could get a better view of the tumbling water.

A sickish feeling stabbed through my heart as I watched Caine with the child. I didn't know why ... and I didn't want to know why ... but the fond look on his face and the way he seemed able to devote his entire attention to the boy disturbed me greatly.

I turned my back on them. I'd rather watch the Falls.

The baby finally shut up, but Caine held the child for the rest of the trip, relinquishing him to his mother only after we'd disembarked.

"I thought we were here to see the sights, not to baby-sit," I said sourly to my companion as we headed back to the parking lot to find my car.

"You ... do not like ... children?"

"No, I ... do not like ... children," I retorted, mimicking his odd manner of speaking.

My attempt at sarcasm must not have penetrated, since he merely said, "That is most ... unfortunate."

"Humph," was my only reply. All this talk of children was making me uncomfortable, so I chose not to pursue the subject further.

We got a room at a little place called the Fairway Motel. We were both pretty damp from our boat trip and I desperately wanted to clean up, but I persuaded Caine that he should have first dibs on the shower. I wanted a chance to get my stuff out of the car without his seeing that I had only the one small travelling case, rather than a normal amount of luggage. (I had planned to jump off a bridge, remember? You don't need much of a wardrobe for that. I had brought only the clothes I expected to be buried in. But Caine hadn't known of my original intention, and I wanted to keep it that way.)

I had managed to purchase a sweatshirt with a tastefully small MAID OF THE MIST logo at the gift shop, but that was the only other shirt I had available, at this point.

I quickly unpacked my half empty valise into a dresser drawer. Minus the shirt on my back, which I had already used to replace the one that had been trashed by the gay-bashers, I had one complete change of clothing. Plus the contents of my toiletries case, of course. (Did you really expect a gay guy to go anywhere, even to his own death, without brush, comb, etcetera?)

That done, I inspected my face in the mirror. Could have been worse, all things considered. The swelling had gone down quite a bit. I turned my head this way and that, considering the damage from all angles. My left cheek was a mottled purple, heading for black and blue, but the effect wasn't too gruesome. I might have simply walked into something, as far as anyone could tell.

Stripping off my wet shirt, I checked out my ribs. There was a very dramatic and colorful bruise spreading from my mid-section to almost under my right arm. Gingerly, I prodded the discolored spot, taking an experimental deep breath at the same time. That caused me to wince, but, once again, it could have been a lot worse. (Would have been a lot worse, if Caine hadn't intervened while they were beating me.) A couple of ribs had doubtless been cracked, but there wasn't much to be done for broken ribs, as long as they weren't badly misaligned. Given time, they'd heal.

I was still inspecting myself in the mirror when Caine came out of the bathroom, wearing only his trousers. Years of appraising other men's bodies led to my first reaction: not bad for someone his age, but he could stand to lose a little weight. Then I realized I was standing there with my arms bare and he couldn't help but see the network of criss-crossed scars that I normally concealed beneath long sleeves.

It was certainly too late to pull on my shirt. I was about to turn away and hope he hadn't noticed, but then I caught a glimpse of his arms and hesitated just a moment too long, staring at them.

Tattoos? Not quite. Scars? But scars don't usually come in the shape of stylized animals.

Betrayed by my own curiosity, I had lost my chance to get out of this gracefully.

However, Caine seemed neither surprised nor particularly self-conscious over my brief lapse of courtesy in staring at him. I guess he was used to that reaction. I didn't even have to ask. He saw the question on my face.

Turning his arms to the light so I could see them more clearly, he said simply, "This ... marks me as a Shaolin priest."

"Oh. Okay." Whatever that was. Sounded like some kind of oriental stuff. No, wait. I did know what that was. I remembered some stories Bobbie Ling, my long-ago Chinese lover, had once told me, and the Bruce Lee movies he had dragged me to see.

(Bobbie. I hadn't thought of him in a long time, but I missed him still. If only I hadn't been so jealous. If only I hadn't held onto him so tightly. If only -- Cut the crap, Jeremy. "If only" doesn't count. You of all people should know that.)

Back to the present, and Caine standing there, claiming to be something out of a Chinese fantasy. Well, that Shaolin business certainly would explain the way he could fight. But the way Bobbie had told it, those were just stories and legends, based only loosely on reality. Such people weren't real. And they certainly didn't sit beside you in your car, or share a room with you at the Fairway Motel.

Or did they?

At the same time that I was trying not to stare at the symbols on his arms, Caine was gazing at my own bare arms with a speculative look on his face. Well, what could I say? Imitating what he had done, I turned to the light so the crisscross pattern of thin white scars was clearly visible and said brusquely, "This marks me as a failed suicide."

There. Answer that, priest. If you can.

He came to stand in front of me and looked closer before replying matter-of-factly, "You ... did not cut ... in the right places. The arteries are ... easier to reach ..." He drew one finger lightly over the old scars, then down closer to my hand -- "here, by your wrists."

I pulled away from him. "Yeah. I found that out when I didn't die."

"Are you so sure ... that you truly wanted to die?"

"I did, at the time," I answered.

The razor blade had been in my hand before I'd thought about it. I couldn't even see where it was that I was slicing, through the tears in my eyes, but when one arm hurt too much, I had switched to the other one. Even then, I didn't have the guts to cut deeply enough to do any real damage. Afterwards, a couple of weeks on a psyche ward taught me never to so much as mention the word "suicide" where a doctor might hear me.

"Why ... did you wish ... to die?" Caine asked, when I didn't say anything more.

"It's kind of a long story."

"I am ... listening." He sat down on one of the beds, pulling his legs up beneath him tailor-fashion.

Part of me wanted to tell him, wanted desperately to have his understanding, if not exactly his approval. But another, nastier part of me bristled at his offer.

"You may be listening, but I'm not talking! You sound like a goddamn shrink. They listen real good, but they don't help much. Oh yeah, they can give you drugs that make you feel better, but does that really help? They can't solve your problems, but they sure can listen."

"Sometimes there is ... nothing ... anyone can do for another person ... except listen," Caine said, apparently unaffected by my outburst.

"Well, that isn't enough!"

"Jeremy, ... what ... would be enough?"

I hate it when someone asks a question I can't answer. What did I want from the poor man, anyway? Could he make the past as if it hadn't happened? Could he give me a new life? Of course not.

Shit, I'd be satisfied if he could just make the darkness go away. Even a little bit would help. But he couldn't know about that, and I didn't want to tell him.

"I'm sorry. I had no right to explode at you." I purely hate to apologize, but I'll do it if it's absolutely necessary.

The only response I got was a shrug. Okay, he wasn't angry, but he was still sitting there expectantly.

"It was a long time ago that I slashed my wrists. It doesn't matter anymore."

The look in his eyes clearly said, "Sure. Tell me another one," but he said nothing out loud. He didn't have to. I squirmed anyway.

Why was I letting him get to me like this? What did it matter what he thought? He was just a homeless drifter I'd picked up along the road.

"It's none of your business," I replied gruffly. I stomped into the bathroom, closed the door, and took my shower, leaving him sitting cross-legged on the bed.

When I came out of the bathroom later on, he was still in the same position, his eyes closed and his hands resting on his knees.

I lay down across the other bed, figuring to rest my eyes for a few minutes, and promptly fell asleep. When I awoke, the room had gotten dark.

Caine was still sitting there.

 

We had supper at a Chinese restaurant not far from the motel. I hadn't had Chinese food since Bobbie left me. Just hadn't had any reason to, I guess.

Although I used to be good at it, my fingers felt strangely shaky and uncoordinated when I picked up the chopsticks that night. Too many memories connected to the tactile sensation of holding those little wooden sticks. Too many meals in too many similar places, with the omnipresent red-and-black decor, painted screens, and fancy lanterns. Too many evenings spent gazing into Bobbie's black eyes.

When I dropped the same piece of pork for the third time in a row, Caine said without the slightest hint of amusement in his voice, "I believe they would ... bring you a ... fork if you wished."

"No, I can do it," I snapped.

When I went on to drop the chunk of pork in my lap, he had the good grace not to smile.

I can be very stubborn at times. Summoning all my resolve, I struggled manfully through the rest of my dinner, rice and all, with the damn chopsticks.

Afterwards, we walked down the street to see the Falls from another perspective. At night they shine multi-colored lights on the water. The colors shift slowly, making for a truly spectacular light show. The effect was better on the American Falls, because the perpetual mist from the higher and more powerful Horseshoe tended to obscure the details.

As I leaned forward against one of the stone blocks that anchor the metal railing along the edge of the walkway, the changing panorama of colors gave a surreal and dreamlike feeling to the entire scene. Here was the raw power of plunging water, painted into harmlessness by the pastel magic of 24 huge carbon arc lights. Above the torrent, the lights of the city on the American side glittered on the turbulent rapids, throwing white diamonds above the colored lace of the waters.

For a brief moment, I was caught up in the strange beauty of the scene.

"Lovely, isn't it?" I remarked.

"I ... do not understand ... the reason for the colors. Is it not ... beautiful enough ... without them?"

He was spoiling my already fragile mood.

"They make it prettier," I replied shortly. 

"They are ... illusion."

My mind did a backflip and the scene seemed to shift before my eyes. It became all surface prettiness, hiding the treacherous reality of rocks and plunging destruction. The huge boulders, piled almost half the height of the American Falls in some places, suddenly became the sordid reality upon which our pretty-colored dreams are smashed and shattered. Maybe Caine could look this reality in the face and find it beautiful, but I couldn't. I liked the illusion better, but, once lost, I couldn't call it back.

His unruffled attitude of peace and tranquility was starting to get to me again. Why couldn't I be like that, instead of being driven crazy by my own restless thoughts? Or was he, like the lights, just illusion: a semblance of calm and courage, but truly just as vulnerable to despair as anyone else?

An idea occurred to me then, and it wasn't a particularly nice idea. But I never said I was nice, did I? When the darkness comes down on you, you tend to lash out at whatever's nearby.

Caine was nearby.

I was going to break him down somehow. If I could make him know the despair that haunted me, make him acknowledge the sheer hideousness of life, I felt I'd win some crazy bet with the universe and I could die happy.

Yeah, that's right. I was thinking about dying again, and I knew just how I wanted it to happen. By now you're probably convinced I'm crazy. Well, perhaps I was, at the time. I'm not making excuses; I'm just trying to make you understand.

But why did I feel I had to involve Kwai Chang Caine in my fatal wager? Maybe it was just because he was there, or maybe it was something more. Consider this: I was worried to distraction because I had no job prospects for the future, but I had $10,000 in cash stashed in my car, my life's savings, such as it was, while Caine didn't have any money at all and didn't seem to care. I was getting old. Well, maybe 50 isn't exactly ancient, but it's bad enough, especially if you're gay, while Caine was certainly older than I was.

But it was more than just that. I felt somehow that the world had no place for me. I didn't fit in anywhere, didn't belong anywhere. Lonely? Perhaps. But it wasn't the kind of loneliness that would go away if someone offered to buy me a drink. It was an existential loneliness, a spiritual loneliness, if you will. There was just nothing out there for me, nothing worth having. I was a child standing in the cold, face pressed to the window watching all the happy people at the party inside, but unable to enter because I hadn't been considered worthy of an invitation.

Gak! I choke on my own self-pity even as I write this, but that's exactly how it felt. The outcast, the misfit, the tormented soul howling outside the gates of paradise.

While Caine -- well, if there was someplace he fit in, I couldn't imagine where it would be. But what galled me was that he didn't particularly seem to care.

His very sense of peace mocked and infuriated me.

One day. I'd give myself one day. If I could make the darkness touch his soul and destroy that peace by nightfall tomorrow, then I'd know I was right: life really was meaningless and I'd be free to die. And if I couldn't -- well, maybe I'd just have to go on living a while longer.

Yes, I know. It was a crazy bet. But I wasn't quite sane that night, as I've already told you.

As the colors shifted over the face of the Falls, I turned to Caine and said brightly, "I got an idea. Wanna hear it?"

He looked sideways at me and inclined his head a fraction. I took that as an invitation to proceed.

"How about if we spend another day here? I could use more time to rest, and there are some things I'd like to see."

"Those ... brochures ... you picked up at the restaurant?"

"Yeah." I smiled. "Come with me tomorrow and see the sights, then we'll hit the road again the next day. Or are you in such a big hurry to get to California?"

"You ... truly intend to go that far?"

"Perhaps. I'm not sure yet." Come the day after tomorrow, if it happened that I was still alive to see it, yeah, maybe I would take him where he was going.

Caine nodded. "I am not ... in such a big hurry as that, Jeremy. I will ... stay with you."

"Good," I replied, turning back to watch the Falls fade from purple to yellow.

You don't know what you just agreed to, priest. Not by long shot.

The darkness was closing in on me again, and I had the feeling it was going to get real dark this time.

 

By the next morning, I had laid out the plans for the day. I got us tickets on the aptly-named People Mover, which I can best describe as a fleet of tandem buses that do nothing but follow a round-trip route past the most popular tourist attractions.

Caine didn't say much. He just sort of went along with me. I really couldn't tell if he was interested in all this or merely humoring me. Not that it mattered one way or the other, as long as he was there.

He sat looking out the window, calmly studying the scenery as it passed, until I nudged him and announced, "This is our stop."

I led the way out of the bus and across an observation platform overlooking a deep gorge, where I stopped at the edge and turned to my companion.

"Okay, here's our first thrill of the day. What do you think?"

Caine glanced down and out over the railing to the sheer drop before us, where a garish yellow and red contraption hung suspended from cables above the turbulent waters of the river below.

For those of you who have never seen it, the so-called Spanish Aerocar runs back and forth over a sharp bend in the Niagara River, where a whirlpool is created by the clashing currents some 250 feet below. Spanish only because the original cable car was built in Spain, it is definitely not a ride for the faint-hearted. Nevertheless, the rather flimsy-looking open car, held aloft by nothing more than 6 slender cables, carries a constant stream of nervous tourists on ten minute round trips above the gorge. As far as I know, it has an excellent safety record, but it certainly doesn't look safe.

Myself, I've never been particularly afraid of heights. After all, it would have been highly unlikely that I'd even consider jumping off a bridge if I suffered from acrophobia, right? I'd have come up with some way to off myself while firmly on the ground, had that been the case.

"You wish us to go ... on that?" Caine asked, a hint of uncertainty in the soft question.

Ha! Got you! I thought with satisfaction. Something about this bothered him.

"Yeah. What's the matter, you scared of heights?" Not that I truly expected it to be that simple, of course. I just wanted to get him talking.

Leaning slightly forward over the railing, he stared straight down, not even looking at the cable car. "No," he said at last, "I ... am not."

Despite his words, there was an air of dejection about him that hadn't been there before. Something was clearly bugging him and I made up my mind to find out what it was.

"Good. Come on," I replied cheerfully, heading for the ticket booth.

It wasn't long before we were sitting on a bench on the aerocar as it glided out over nothing. All right, maybe I did feel a wee bit nervous about dangling in the air that way. Perhaps my hands did clutch pretty tightly around the edge of the seat when the entire thing swayed in a gust of wind.

Ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, I stood up and walked over to the side of the car, determined to appear absolutely fearless.

Although! I had neither seen nor heard him move, Caine was right beside me. He stared straight down into the gorge, much as he had done earlier on the overlook. "Peter ... would not have liked this," he said in a voice so soft I wasn't sure I was supposed to have heard him.

"Peter?" I prompted.

He didn't answer right off. He glanced sideways at me, then down again.

"My ... son."

I thought back to the conversation we'd had in the car shortly after I'd first picked him up. "You said you had no family."

"I ... do not. Peter ... has been dead for many years."

And it still hurt. I could tell from his voice. This was a weak spot. It had to be.

"I take it he was afraid of heights?"

Caine smiled, as if at a fond memory. "Yes. Very much so."

I needed more info about this Peter person. Okay, get him to talk about it. But how? The cable car had almost reached the far side of the gorge, which meant the ride was close to being half over. Not really a lot of time to chat.

Caine continued to look down at the swirling river below us, a slight smile hovering on his lips. Must be thinking about his son. As the aerocar came to a stop with a bit of a jolt and reversed direction, he looked up curiously at the cable overhead. Then he went back to studying the emptiness below our feet.

How would I get him to tell me about Peter without it being obvious that I was drawing him out? What to say? Hmm.

"I had a child once myself," I confided. This brought his attention back from the void. He turned to me, with the closest thing to surprise that I had ever seen him show.

"But ... you are ... gay."

It was a question, not just a statement.

"Yeah, well, a lot of gay guys are entirely capable of making love to a woman." I shrugged, totally nonchalant. "They just prefer men. It isn't strictly either/or in many cases. It all depends on the person."

"Ah! I had not ... realized ... that."

Well, I had his attention now, didn't I? But this wasn't quite what I'd had in mind.

"What ... happened ... to your child?"

No, this wasn't the response I wanted. But what could I say?

"Her name was Cindy Jane. And as far as I know, she's still alive. But I haven't seen her since she was five months old. That's when my wife found out I had a boyfriend on the side and threw me out."

I could tell from the look on Caine's face that he expected me to say more, so I did. But it was starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

"I never saw the baby again. My wife got sole custody and moved away. My daughter would be -- let's see now -- just about 25 years old. I wouldn't recognize her if she walked up and shook my hand."

Caine nodded slightly. "Peter would have been ... just a few years older than that. I do not know which loss is greater. I had Peter for twelve years before he died."

"At least I can still imagine Cindy Jane is alive and happy somewhere." Although for all I know, that may not be true. But I didn't say that last part out loud. The darkness was gathering for real now, and I didn't want to give it any more edge than it already had.

"That is ... a small enough consolation," Caine said. I felt that he somehow knew my unspoken thought as well.

As the cable car slid back into its original starting place, I decided this wasn't working out right at all. I was doing all the talking and I still hadn't learned anything about Peter, other than the fact that he had died as a child. Nevertheless, the mood had been established. I might yet turn this conversation in the proper direction.

Instead of heading directly for the People Mover after we'd gotten off the aerocar, I strolled casually around the overlook and leaned once again on the railing. Caine stayed close enough to me to be my shadow. Come to think of it, he always seemed to be right alongside me whenever I got near any sort of drop-off. Nah, must be my imagination. There was no way he could know the thing I had for heights.

"So tell me about Peter," I invited.

That was all it took. In his usual quiet, halting manner he told me the long story about a much-loved wife dying of a lingering disease, leaving him with a young son. Then it got weird. He raised the boy in a Shaolin Temple in California. (Okay, maybe they do have Shaolin Temples out there. Goodness knows, they've got just about everything else.) Life was good, until the Temple was destroyed some 15 years ago and the boy died in the fire. Since then, he'd been wandering around, searching for peace and some trace of his son's essence. (Uh -- run that last part by me again?)

By now, I was about halfway convinced that Caine had gone off the deep end. Maybe there had been a wife and child, as he claimed, but losing them may have been enough to push him over the edge. (But then, in another part of my mind, I really could picture this man in a Temple somewhere, teaching martial arts. Sometimes the line between the sublimely beautiful and the supremely ridiculous is very thin indeed, and it can be very hard to tell which side you're on.)

I was just congratulating myself on getting so much information out of my usually-silent companion when he closed one hand around my forearm. "Did you do ... this ... when you lost your family?"

Despite the intervening layer of fabric and the gentleness of his touch, I felt a faint ghost of the pain that underlaid the old scars on my arms. Oh yeah, it had hurt a lot, once I'd gotten over my first shock and had stood there staring at the blood oozing from the flesh I had sliced up so messily.

It didn't even occur to me to lie to Caine. Besides, he'd have known the truth from the look on my face and the way I had practically flinched away from his words.

"Yes," I replied, staring down at his hand on my arm. (And the wedding ring on his finger, still, after all these years. I had thrown mine into the ocean, in a fit of rage and grief.)

Why was this hitting me so hard all of a sudden? That had been years ago. I'd gotten over it, and gone on with my life.

"Did you wish to die ... because you were gay?"

The question was so far off base that it jerked me out of my self-pity. But it was a predictable assumption from a straight man.

"Of course not!" I retorted indignantly. "I've never regretted that and I don't regret it now. I wanted to die because I'd hurt the people I cared for, and I couldn't stand that."

Wait a minute, where had those last words come from? I hadn't even thought such a thing before, at least not in so many words. And now I had blurted it out to this almost-stranger? What was wrong with me?

"Being what you were ... how could you have done otherwise?"

"Damnit, I could have known better than to marry my wife in the first place! And I certainly should have known better than to father a child!"

"Will the past change because we ... could have ... done differently?"

I definitely didn't like this. I had to get him off my back, and fast.

"Pretty words, Caine. But they don't change anything. Don't tell me you never wished you could have saved your wife, or felt you should have saved your son."

He let go of my wrist and recoiled slightly, almost as if I'd slapped him. Good. That was what I had intended.

"What we ... sometimes feel ... and what we know to be true ... are not always the same."

"Bullshit! If you can't live it, don't preach it! I've heard enough foolish platitudes in my life. I don't have to listen to them from someone like you."

I turned my back on him and started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm again. Furious, I tried to pull loose, but that was about useless. I turned back to face him, ready to call him some choice names if he didn't get out of my face.

"Jeremy, ... look down," he said, before I could so much as open my mouth.

Huh? What did that have to do with anything? Somewhat reluctantly, I craned my neck forward enough to stare directly over the edge of the gorge.

"What ... do you see?"

"A whirlpool," I replied, exasperated at the obviousness of the answer.

"What is the ... nature ... of this whirlpool?"

"Uh --" Now he'd thrown me totally off track. I had to think back to the brochures I'd read for the answer to that one. "The conflicting currents from the river build up pressure in this cul-de-sac, and that forces some of the water down and underneath the incoming water. It comes up again --" I pointed to an especially turbulent spot downstream – “over there."

"That which is on the surface ... is drawn down to the depths ... only to reappear somewhere else?"

I was mesmerized by the swirl of the water now. I could hardly pull my eyes away from it.

"Yeah," I replied, distracted.

"Does this not also happen ... within the soul? What comes to the surface may be anger, but was it not ... something else ... that was driven down into the depths?"

Damn him, anyway! He wasn't supposed to see that. No one was supposed to see the pain I'd kept carefully buried in my heart for all those years, along with the memory of my infant daughter's smile.

It wasn't easy, but I pulled myself away from the maelstrom of regret and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm me.

"Okay," I said at last, "I concede the point. You win this round."

He spread his hands and sort of shrugged. "It is not a contest."

Oh, isn't it? That's how much you know, priest, I thought viciously as we walked away from the overlook and went to wait for the People Mover.

 

"Okay, next stop," I announced. This time I was determined not to allow myself to be sucked into the past.

We got off at what used to be called the Table Rock scenic Tunnels but is now termed "Journey Behind the Falls." Elevators take you down almost to the base of the Horseshoe Falls, where there are tunnels and viewing portals behind the cataract, as well as an outdoor observation platform next to the base of the Falls. Everybody gets a free plastic raincoat (which they assure us is biodegradable, no less!) for protection from the spray.

I suppose it's inevitable that you get wet, if you seek to get an up-close and personal view of such a watery attraction, but this was the second time in as many days that I looked at the world through water-speckled glasses, while the dampness soaked through my shoes and made my trouser cuffs sog dismally around my ankles as I walked. The concrete pavement of the observation platform was one solid puddle. Caine had already slipped out of his sandals and was walking around barefoot. If the day had been cooler, it would have been uncomfortable but as it was, it was rather nice. The sun came and went behind a thickening scatter of gray clouds, casting the wall of plunging water next to us now in shade, now in dazzling brightness.

Tourists oohed and aahed and snapped pictures of each other, but I did my best to ignore that. The steady roar of the Falls filled my ears. I won't deny that it was beautiful, in its own violent way. The ever-changing tumble of frothy water coming from above; the churning thunder and rising mist as it crashed to earth not far below where we stood.

I could almost reach out my hand and touch the deluge. Seen up close, that incredible force boggled me. Yet it was caused by nothing except height, and the mysterious attraction we call gravity.

"Pretty impressive, isn't it?" I remarked.

Caine nodded. " 'Nothing is weaker than water, but when it attacks something hard or resistant, then nothing withstands it and nothing will alter its way.' "

Had to be another one of those quotes he was so fond of, judging by the way he said it without as much hesitation as usual.

"The Tao Te Ching again?" I hazarded.

"A ... modern translation, yes."

I looked up to the top of the Falls, where the water just kept coming. Tons and tons of it. More than you could stop, more than you could ever hope to withstand. All the evil, all the agony, all the hopelessness of despair, flooded my mind with the irresistible force of that cataract.

What had Caine said: "Nothing will alter its way"? Yeah, that seemed about right.

He must have seen something of what I was thinking. Maybe it showed on my face. He put one hand on my shoulder.

"You can ... choose ... whether you view it from ... this angle, ... or look down at it ... from above."

Annoyed, I shook him off. "Damnit, Caine, it just isn't that easy!"

"No," he said, heavily. "You are right. It is not ... that easy."

That was my first real hint that I was getting to him. It recalled me to my purpose.

"Do you have any idea what it feels like when your life falls apart?" I demanded, knowing full well that I'd only be reminding him of the loss of his son. "When your dreams are dead and all you ever cared about is gone? Do you even begin to know how that feels?"

"Yes."

Double damn! He wasn't supposed to admit it so freely and look so vulnerable. Without thinking, I asked, "What do you do in such a case?"

"You ... go on."

"What for?" I sneered.

"Because ... sometimes ... that is all ... you can do."

"There are other possible courses of action," I said carefully. "After all, no life lasts forever."

He nodded. "All that lives ... must die. And death ... will come when it will. But do you not have ... better things to do ... than seek it out?"

I couldn't answer that. I couldn't even meet his eyes. At that point, I didn't have any better things to do, but I didn't want to tell him that. Not just yet.

My silence must have given away more than I wanted it to.

"Jeremy, ... you feel right now ... that all is hopeless. But does not the day ... follow the night? All things change."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing ... is real ... except change. All things carry within themselves their opposites. Without hope, ... there can be no despair. Without despair, ... there can be no hope."

I shook my head and turned away. That sounded good, but there was no feeling in my heart that my darkness would ever give way to light.

He took me by the shoulders and forced me to look at him. To this day, I can still see his face, framed against the cascading torrent behind him.

"Jeremy, ... the wheel turns. Nothing lasts forever."

"Death lasts forever," I murmured.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. We cannot know ... even that ... for sure."

Okay. I wasn't ready to argue that one with him. I had no expectation of life after death, but there truly was no way to know for sure. After all, I wasn't dead. Yet.

He went on, perhaps encouraged by my silence.

"Your path ... is not clear now." He shrugged, still holding my shoulders. "That happens. You must wait. The way ... will appear."

I looked down, unable to meet his eyes any longer.

"I can't."

"You can."

I shook my head. Behind him, the water continued to fall, and the mist rose in rainbows as a shaft of sunlight pierced the gathering clouds.

 

I had chosen our last stop with great care. Just about half a mile above the Horseshoe Falls, there's an old scow that's been stuck on a shoal since 1918. The brochures tell of an exciting rescue of the two men who had been on the scow when it grounded, so close to plunging over the edge. Now it was just one more item to be pointed out to tourists, so they could shiver in vicarious fear over the almost-fate of the two men.

No People-Mover this time. I chose to walk along the road instead, with the hustle and tumble of the rapids not far to our left as we made our way upriver. There were intermittent patches of grass and trees between us and the river, but I found it hard to keep my eyes off the water. In the muted roar of the Falls, I seemed to hear it calling my name.

By the time we reached a point roughly opposite to the stranded scow, a fine drizzle had begun to fall from the darkening sky. I wasn't going to let a little water deter me from my purpose, though. I drew Caine's attention to the scow, which from here rather resembled a small island overgrown with vegetation, and went on to tell him of its history as we walked across the damp grass and came to a halt a few steps from the river that seemed in such a hurry to throw itself over the Falls.

All too soon, I ran out of words and simply stood staring at the rushing water.

I was a downed branch, caught in the current. I could no more stand against the flood of despair than I could stand against the Niagara River. Why even bother to try? There was nothing in life that held any interest. The glitter, if it had ever been there, had long ago faded. It wasn't a case of losing everything and anything I'd ever loved. I could have handled that. No. I had lost the capacity to love at all.

I'm not talking about sex or romance. I'm talking about the essential love of life itself. There was no joy left to me, but only endless days of boredom and trivia. No dreams, no hopes, no glory, no grandeur. A poor pathetic aging fairy, who couldn't find enough meaning in life to make it worth living. I was a joke, a figure of fun, a failure of any ideal I'd ever had.

Why should I bother to go on, as Caine had insisted? Why should anyone? There was nowhere worth going on to.

Caine interrupted my dismal thoughts by asking softly, "Jeremy, ... is this not ... better ... than a bridge?"

Damn! Could this dude read minds or something?

"What are you talking about?" I asked warily.

"You have been ... looking into the abyss ... since we first met, ... have you not?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know ... exactly what I mean. You have been ... contemplating ... your death and searching for the time to invite it into your heart." He waved a hand at the river in front of us. "Would not this be ... an excellent place to die? It is so near ... so easy. Much better than that bridge on Cape Cod."

Huh? I'd never told him I'd intended to jump back then.

"You knew about that?"

He shrugged, the way he always did.

Yeah, maybe he had. And maybe he knew about this time too.

I looked out over the water. A couple of steps. That's all it would take. I'd be off the riverbank and into the chaos of foam and crystal ... and the rapids would have me, beyond return, beyond escape. I'd plunge to my death, before the horrified and fascinated eyes of the tourists. If that was the only drama I could make from my miserable life, at least it was something.

"Jeremy, ... can you not ... face the truth? You do not truly wish to die, you merely fear to live." His hands closed over my wrists, and his words came with less hesitation than usual. "You were not serious when you used the razor, or you would have cut deeper and in the right places. You were not serious about jumping off the Bourne Bridge, if you could be distracted from the attempt so easily by the novelty of my presence. And no matter what you may think you do not wish to die now."

"What would you know about what I want?" I demanded as I pulled away from him. "What do you know of the darkness that's eating away at me?"

For just an instant, there was a distance in his eyes, as if he were remembering something. Then he said, "Fear ... is the only darkness. And this darkness exists ... in everyone. It is ... part ... of us. You cannot ... destroy it, but only learn to live with it."

I shook my head and turned away from him.

He put his hands on my shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the tense muscles in my neck. Almost, I wanted to relax into that comforting touch. But that wasn't why I was here, standing in the drizzling rain and staring out over the river.

"Maybe I can't," I replied. "Maybe I don't want to. Maybe I just want you to leave me alone and let me get this over with."

"If that is what ... you want, why are you still here ... talking to me?"

He kept on rubbing my neck as he waited for my answer. This simply wouldn't do. It felt too good.

"What ... do you fear?" he asked in that hypnotic voice.

"Nothing. I'm not afraid of anything."

"That ... is not the truth."

"All right! I'm afraid of the future in a world that doesn't want me and has no place for me."

"What else?"

"There's nothing else."

"Is there not? Look closer."

I did, and was surprised at what I saw. "Losing out to the darkness inside me."

"Ah!"

It's a good thing he was standing behind me. I'd never have been able to say that to his face.

"Jeremy," he continued, "sometimes it is ... necessary to turn and face the tiger."

That threw me. "What are you talking about? What tiger?"

"The one that ... pursues you. The one that ... lurks ... in the darkness you so much fear. Close your eyes. Look into that darkness."

"No way."

"Look at it," he insisted. "what do you see?"

Okay, I looked. But I didn't like what I saw.

"I see myself," I admitted raggedly. "I destroy people. I've hurt everyone I ever cared about."

"Who have you destroyed?"

"Bobbie, who was once my lover. My wife. My daughter."

"You ... give yourself ... more power than you have. You do not know ... that you have destroyed them. Your daughter lives. Her life is ... different because you are not there. But you did not destroy her."

"Well, I sure didn't help her any!"

"That is ... not the same."

"No? Tell me you don't know what I mean. How do you feel about Peter?"

He froze, his fingers digging into my neck.

"I ... should have been able save him."

"There are those I should have been able to save," I replied harshly, his spell broken at last. Wrenching free from his grasp, I turned to face him, backing away as he tried to follow me.

"Don't touch me," I snarled.

"I ... mean you no harm."

"Yes, you do," I hissed. "You're trying to make me doubt myself, with all this talk of facing things. You want to face some truth, Kwai Chang Caine? Then try this on for size."

A kind of rage I'd never known I could feel erupted from my heart and poured out of my mouth in a torrent of words, all directed at the man who had dared to get in my way.

"You're nothing but a pathetic old bum! You've wasted most of your life wandering around and doing nothing, a spaced-out freak pretending to enlightenment, who talks like a fortune cookie but doesn't practice what he preaches. You're pushing peace and non-violence, but you casually beat up those men who attacked us back on Cape Cod."

"That was ... self-defense," Caine interjected, but his voice lacked conviction. "I didn't want ... to hurt them."

"Oh, come off it! How many people have you beaten the shit out of over the years, despite your fancy words and pious platitudes? No one learns to fight like that and then doesn't use it."

He might have had an answer to that, but I didn't let him get it in.

"And yet, you've given up your entire life without a fight. You told me your Temple was destroyed and you just walked away, without trying to rebuild, with no consideration for the other survivors, because your precious son was dead. Am I supposed to admire that? How many times have you just walked away, Caine? How many other people have you left behind? If you'd truly wanted a family, you could have found another wife and had lots more kids by now. Don't you think it's about time you stop mourning for Peter and get on with your life? Fifteen years of searching for your son's essence? Get real! The boy is dead. There's nothing left of him but a rotting corpse. No, not even that. A pile of bones. Nothing you can do can change that. You can't find him. You can't bring him back. All you could possibly do is join him in death."

I ran out of words at last, and stood there at the edge of the river staring at Caine, waiting to discover the impact of my tirade on this paradigm of peace and tranquility. 

His face barely changed expression, but I saw it in his eyes when the shadow fell over him. I'd finally gotten to him. The same horror and hopelessness that was destroying me had touched him also.

That was what I had wanted, wasn't it? Well, I'd done it. I'd gotten what I wanted, only to find I didn't want it anymore. I'd hurt him all right, but it hadn't brought me any satisfaction. I only felt worse, if such a thing were possible. Caine was the one person in all the world who'd been nice to me and in return. I'd tried to destroy his peace. And perhaps succeeded.

Then I realized that I'd just done it again. I'd destroyed someone I cared about. (Him? You care about him? Well -- yeah.)

That was absolutely the last straw. Totally disgusted with everything I'd ever been or done, I flung myself backwards into the rapids.

Swirling coldness closed around me, but my feet struck a slippery rock bottom. I had expected the water to be deeper. I knew it was hopeless and I wanted to die, but apparently my stubborn body didn't realize that. I tried to stand, feet scrabbling on the rocks as my head broke the surface and I gasped in a mouthful of air and foam.

Although the water came only just above my waist, I couldn't fight the current. My feet were swept out from under me and I -- 

\-- felt myself being picked up by the back of my sweatshirt.

Caine was in the water too, hanging onto me with one hand while trying to stand up.

What the hell? Had I taught him enough about despair that he wanted to die too?

No, despite what I'd seen in his eyes, he wasn't here to commit suicide. He was trying to save me. I wanted to tell him not to bother, it wasn't worth it, and at the same time I wanted to thank him for seeing something in me that might be worth saving.

Then he managed to stand up, and pull me up with him.

How he kept his feet under him, I don't know. Yeah, he was taller and heavier than I am, but even so, no man should have been able to stand against that current, much less hold onto someone else.

Meanwhile, he was keeping me from my goal. I tried to get loose, but before I could slip out of my sweatshirt, he grabbed me from behind and pulled me back up against him, pinning my arms at my sides and effectively preventing me from struggling any more. Cursing and crying, I still tried vainly to get loose. I could feel the strain in his body as he fought to keep us both from being swept away in the torrent. There was no way he could keep this up for long. He'd have to let me go in order to save himself.

I glanced downstream, towards the thunder of the Falls and the dank mist that hung like a shroud above that deadly drop.

Caine had said I didn't really want to die, but he was wrong. Wasn't he?

Staring over the raging water, I knew there would be an end to fear, an end to it all. I'd never have to be a pathetic aging fairy, homeless and alone in an uncaring world.

But the price was steep: I'd never be anything anymore. There were no further possibilities for me at the foot of the Horseshoe Falls. Whatever I'd done or failed to do in the past, there would be no chance for growth or change.

I'm no stranger to the face of death. I know what it looks like. I've buried too many friends to believe the undertaker's made-up illusion. But now, facing the imminent reality of my own body crushed and broken by the awesome power of the water, I seemed to see it anew.

Death is the animal lying freshly crushed on the roadway: raw meat, torn flesh, entrails spread obscenely on the asphalt. In and of itself, it is neither grace nor beauty. As a final escape for those tortured beyond endurance by the ills of the body, it might sometimes be welcome. There may even be honor in it, if you die for a cause.

I had no cause.

Caine had been right to ask if I truly wanted this. It sounded dramatic, heroic, and romantic, but the truth was raw meat and carrion. I wasn't ready to give up yet, no matter how miserable and wretched I might feel. This world was far too beautiful to leave, for no reason more weighty than my own self-pity and general funk.

All right, I didn't want to die, but I'd gotten us into this. It wasn't Caine's fault. I couldn't ask him to risk his life any further.

I stopped trying to get loose. "Save yourself," I yelled back over my shoulder, hoping he could hear me over the rush of the water.

"No." His voice held that same awesome calmness, but I could feel him trembling.

Okay, if he was determined to be a hero, this was no time to try to argue him out of it. Squirming around to face him, I locked my arms around his waist and gasped, "Okay, then save us both."

We were only a few yards from the riverbank, but those were a long few yards. He slipped once, but managed to get up again. To this day, I don't know how he did it. It took all my strength just to hold on to him.

The current slackened as we neared the bank. Caine hoisted me out of the water. I crawled up the grassy slope and collapsed on my face, gagging and coughing. A sharp pain in my side told me I'd done my injured ribs no good, but I pushed myself up on my elbows to look for my rescuer.

I didn't have to look far, as he was already kneeling next to me. He was out of breath and clearly exhausted, which only showed he wasn't invincible, after all.

Another fit of coughing hit me and I doubled over, clutching my chest. Caine eased me onto my back, his fingers carefully exploring my ribs.

"Jeremy, ... are you all right?"

I couldn't answer. It was too hard to breathe, and yet I needed more air.

"Lie still. Relax."

Yeah, right. When I couldn't get a lungful of air without feeling as if there was a knife stabbing into my chest?

"I ... can help you," he said. "Breathe slowly and gently."

The quiet reassurance in his voice cut through my incipient panic. Closing my eyes, I did my best to comply.

His hands were strangely warm where they rested on my chest. Maybe I was imagining it, but the pain seemed to lessen slightly. I held very still, concentrating on breathing just with my diaphragm without moving my ribs. The rain was coming down hard now, drops splattering on my upturned face. Good. I'd think about that sensation, rather than my ribs.

All this had happened in less time than it's taking me to describe it, but there was an elongated, almost slow motion, feel to it. Somehow, in those few moments, I had time for a lot of thoughts.

At some point while I lay there, it occurred to me that the rain had worked to my advantage: no one had been around to see what had happened. The last thing I wanted just now was an ambulance, with a bunch of cops asking difficult questions.

Hmm. If I was pleased by the lack of an ambulance, I must be feeling better. Yes. I could breathe now, the pain only a shadow of what it had been.

I slitted my eyes open and looked at Caine. He sat cross-legged, his head bowed and his eyes closed. But everything was blurred and out of focus. Uh-oh. Lost my glasses. Bummer, but at least I had a spare pair back in my car. When it occurred to me that my glasses were probably even now lying crushed and broken somewhere at the foot of the Horseshoe Falls, I shuddered. It could just as easily have been my body down there.

Or his, I thought, squinting to make out the face of the man who had, once again, rescued me.

Shit! I thought. This is becoming a habit!

He should have hated me, not risked his life to pull me from the river. Suddenly I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I no longer wanted to hurt this man.

I turned my head away from him as tears overflowed from my eyes and mixed with the chilly rain running down my cheeks.

Very carefully, I sat up.

Caine opened his eyes, instantly alert.

"Why?" I croaked hoarsely.

He waved one hand in the direction of the river.

"Jeremy, ... do you ... deserve ... that?"

I glanced at the blur of rain and rushing water. My mind could see the Falls, although my nearsighted eyes couldn't.

"No," I replied at last. "And neither do you."

Surprise widened his eyes ever so slightly.

"What I said to you before?" I went on. "I was angry and upset. I had no right to attack you like that. I can't claim to know what makes you tick, and I certainly can't judge you. I didn't mean it."

If it's possible for a man to look both absolutely calm and absolutely wretched at one and the same time, Caine did it. Then he looked away.

"I ... know. But there was ... some truth ... in your words."

So my carelessly-aimed barbs had sunk in deeper than I had thought. Cursing my ready tongue, I knew I had done it again. I had hurt someone, yes. But I had not destroyed him. He was sitting here in front of me.

For a change, I reached over and touched his shoulder.

"There was more truth in your words," I said. "I don't really want to die. I'm ashamed that I almost took you with me."

He shrugged. "If you truly wish to ... stop someone ... from leaping into the abyss, ... it may become necessary ... to stand next to him ... at the edge."

"Yeah. But if you do that, it's always possible they'll pull you in with them."

"Yes," he said simply. Rising to his feet in one fluid motion, he reached down a hand to help me up. "It is ... time ... we return to the motel, is it not?"

Now that he mentioned it, yeah. We were both soaking wet. I don't know about Caine, but I was cold, and getting colder by the minute as the rain continued to beat down on us. Noticing me shiver, Caine wrapped his jacket around my shoulders, but it didn't help much.

As we headed for the bus stop, we were fortunately no wetter nor more bedraggled than any other tourists caught out in the rain. The People Mover seemed blessedly warm in comparison. I slumped down into a seat and shut my eyes, thinking over what had just happened.

Did I really hate myself so much just because I had hurt other people? (Not "destroyed". As Caine had said, they went on with their lives, changed perhaps, but none of them were truly destroyed, least of all him.)

Was I not, in reality, a vicious, ravening monster, but only an ordinary person?

Oh, I'd read all that "I'm OK, you're OK" stuff a long time ago. But sometimes it's easier to believe if you hear it said by someone else. And just saying it is easy. How much better if someone can act on those words?

The truth is, we don't live in a vacuum and we can't pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps, even if we want to. Much as we may want to proclaim our independence and strength, there is an unbreakable connection between the validation of others and your own self-esteem.

Caine hadn't made it all better and he hadn't made the darkness go away. But he'd made me see more clearly the nature of the beast that hid within it. That was half the battle right there. I was still terrified of the future and what it might hold. There was still the specter of old age and poverty looming before me. Nothing had changed except now I felt there might be a reason to go on, because someone else had faced that emptiness and despair and had chosen to go on anyway.

Yeah, okay. And maybe also because he'd thought that the continuation of my sorry life was worth the risk of his own.

Maybe all these things. Or maybe none of them. I only knew I didn't feel particularly like dying anymore. I thought I might just be able to hang in there and try to make my way through the rest of my life.

And Caine? Well, in some crazy way, he was the light I held against the darkness.

 

By the time we reached the Fairway Motel, I was literally stumbling from cold and exhaustion, the only thing keeping me on my feet being Caine's arm around my waist. At the door to our room, he turned to me, with an absolutely-dead-serious expression on his face that more than half scared me.

"Jeremy, ... you are ... finished ... with this now, ... are you not?"

I would have squirmed away, but he was still holding me.

"What do you mean?"

He gestured down the street towards the Falls.

"You will not ... attempt ... to walk this path again."

I bowed my head and shook it at the same time. "No, I guess I won't."

"That ... is not enough. You will give me ... your word."

"My word? You've got to be kidding. Since when is my word worth anything to anyone?"

"It ... is worth something ... to me."

It was? I looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely before I replied, "I can't promise that, Caine. No one can say what they'll do in the future. But I will promise something else: if I'm ever tempted to try it again, I'll think back over what happened today. Is that good enough?"

He nodded ever so slightly, the intensity never leaving his eyes.

"You will ... remember this promise, Jeremy," he said softly. And then he did something strange. He slapped my face. (The unbruised side, naturally.) Oh, it wasn't hard enough to seriously hurt, but I knew I had been slapped.

He smiled, perhaps at my look of surprise, and then said, "You ... are learning, Jeremy," and opened the door before I could fish the key out of my pocket.

 

By the next morning, the rain had stopped. Squinting against the light from the rising sun, I studied the Canadian road map I had picked up at the motel when I'd gone in to pay the bill, as Caine put our few belongings in the trunk of my car. Highway 20 to Highway 3 looked as if it would take us back to the U.S.A. in the vicinity of Detroit. Anything else in Canada worth visiting while we were here? I glanced over the map again.

"Ever been to Toronto?" I asked Caine. It would take us a little out of our way to stop off there, but it was doable.

"Yes."

"I haven't. Is it worth seeing?"

"It is ... a city, ... like any other," he replied, closing the trunk gently.

"You don't make it sound very exciting."

He shrugged, apparently not much interested in the prospect.

"It is ... your car, ... so it is up to you."

I thought of the vast distance still to cover before we would reach California.

"Maybe some other time," I replied, as we got into the car.


	3. The Gift to Be Free

THE GIFT TO BE FREE

I came out of the dressing room wearing a new pair of jeans and one of those Western-style shirts that have panels made of different colored fabrics. This particular shirt was pale blue, alternating with a paisley design in shades of brown and gold.

"What do you think? Is it me?" I asked.

Kwai Chang Caine looked at me, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "How can what you wear ... be you?"

I shook my head. Sometimes he was just too literal. "Easy," I explained. "It tells the world how I wish to be seen."

"I had not ... thought of it in that way."

Considering the rather nondescript clothes he usually wore, I guess he hadn't. Or he just didn't care. He cocked his head sideways and studied me intently for a moment. "What is it that you wish this ... outfit ... to tell people?"

"Uh -- " I glanced down at myself, suddenly self-conscious.

What did I want people to see when they looked at me? Well, for starters, I wanted to look as if I belonged. We were in Wyoming, hence the Western look. Something casual, interesting, neither too macho nor too obviously effeminate. (Granted, the paisley was pushing it in this respect. But lots of straight men wear gaudy patterns these days.)

I sighed as I surveyed my not-so-slender waistline. The jeans were a size 34; once upon a time, I had worn 26's. Back in those days, when I was young and pretty, I had been Jeremy Joe. Somewhere along the years, I became just plain Jeremy. It sounded more dignified, somehow. But I miss Jeremy Joe. Getting old just doesn't cut it, if you're a gay guy.

Meanwhile, Caine was still standing there, hands clasped in front of him, patiently waiting for an answer.

"Now that you mention it, I'm not really quite sure," I evaded, brushing a nonexistent fleck of lint off one paisley sleeve. "But I like this and I'm going to buy it. Wait a sec while I change back into my old clothes and we can get out of here."

He nodded. I ducked into the dressing room and got out of my new outfit.

The only thing I had to wear that was even half way clean was my sweatshirt with the MAID OF THE MIST logo that I had bought at Niagara Falls five days ago, but that would have to do.

Niagara Falls. More than half a continent away now, but it felt like only yesterday. I'd been ready to end my life there, for reasons that now seemed not quite worth it. Oh yeah, I was still over-the-hill, one step ahead of poverty-stricken, and pretty much a failure at anything I had ever tried to do. But death no longer seemed particularly interesting to me, ever since Kwai Chang Caine had pulled me out of the Niagara River before I could be swept over the Falls and helped me face my own self-hatred. Since then, the darkness in my soul hadn't seemed quite so overwhelming anymore. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance I could find a way to make peace with myself. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

I pulled the sweatshirt down over the top of my pants, readjusted my eyeglasses on my nose, and combed my hair. I hadn't gotten a lot of lucky breaks in my life, but I'd certainly gotten one when I'd offered Caine a ride way back on Cape Cod. He was headed for the West Coast, for reasons of his own.

I shrugged at my reflection in the mirror. I figured I'd drive him there. I owed him that. Besides, what else did I have to do right now? We'd gotten as far as the southwestern part of Wyoming in just under five days, and right now I was more than ready to quit shopping, find a motel, and crash for the night.

Little did I know that it wasn't going to be that simple.

As in every community that makes its living on tourism, there are any number of local festivals, celebrations, and every other excuse anyone can think of to draw tourists into town. On this particular weekend in late summer, it turned out that there was something called a Mountain Man Rendezvous taking place. It was Friday night and every motel in the vicinity of Taylor's Junction was hopelessly sold out.

Resigned to a long drive, I started out of town on Route 80, the road we'd been on all the way from Indiana. Not for the first time on this trip, I found myself a bit annoyed that my passenger couldn't drive. If my Escort had been an automatic, instead of standard, shift, I'd have been sorely tempted to try giving him a few quick lessons, I was that tired.

That was the bitter substance of my thoughts when Caine interrupted with, "We ... do not have to sleep in a motel."

"You got a better idea?"

He did this sort of half-shrug that seemed to be a characteristic gesture. "There is much ... open space around here. We could sleep outside."

I yawned as I considered the suggestion. "You think that would be safe?"

"I have done it many times. It is ... safer than driving, when the driver is about to fall asleep."

He had a point there.

"Sounds good to me. Since you've had more experience with this, why don't you pick out a likely spot?"

He nodded. "As soon as we are away from town, there will be many ... suitable places."

The sun was just going down when he indicated an exit onto a smaller road, then off down a rutted dirt road with an overabundance of curves that didn't look as if it went much of anywhere. I pulled the car off the road next to a stand of trees, not too sure about this now that the reality was upon me. I'd been known to snatch a few hours of shut-eye in a locked car while traveling, but this was different.

Caine must have noticed my hesitation. "You can sleep ... in the car, if you wish."

"Nah," I replied, making up my mind. "I'm game if you are. I think I've got an old blanket in the trunk." I already knew he had his own stuff amongst the things he'd been carrying when I'd picked him up.

Caine cleared off a patch of ground not far from the car, then poked around in the bushes while I dug my blanket out from behind the spare tire. By the time I'd closed the trunk, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, eating something that looked as if it might have been a turnip.

"Want a bite?" he asked.

"Uh -- no. Thanks." I think.

He shrugged. "Perhaps ... some berries?" he suggested, indicating a small pile of bluish, juicy-looking things lying next to his knee.

I don't know what they were, but they tasted pretty good.

Making a pillow out of the bag containing my new clothes, I rolled up in my blanket. I had to admit it wasn't really too uncomfortable. Or maybe I was just exhausted. I was still trying to figure out what kinds of insects were making all that noise when I drifted off to sleep.

I was rudely awakened a couple of hours later by something hard nudging my shoulder. When I opened my eyes and quickly put on my glasses, I found myself staring into the wrong end of a shotgun barrel. Perhaps people who routinely deal with firearms may not feel this way, but to me that barrel looked about six feet long and a yard wide.

"What are you two jokers doing out here?" demanded the person holding the gun. It was a woman, but that made me feel not one whit more secure, especially since I could now see that there were two other women behind her, both holding pitchforks aimed in our direction.

"We were ... sleeping," Caine answered simply, while I was still gathering my thoughts.

As he sat up, the shotgun moved over to focus on him instead of me. Maybe he looked more dangerous than I did. He was certainly bigger and more imposing, or maybe he'd merely drawn her attention. Be that as it may, I didn't move a muscle. Neither did either of the determined-looking pitchfork-wielders.

"You always sleep on the ground?" the woman asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

She had short gray hair and the kind of sharp and piercing eyes that reminded me of my high school geometry teacher. Those fierce eyes narrowed at Caine's answer, and I knew she had just pegged us as homeless tramps. Not good.

"We couldn't find a motel room," I said, to set the record straight. "And we didn't feel like sleeping in my car." I jerked my chin in the direction of my beat-up Escort, just barely visible beyond the bushes. She noticed the car but still didn't look too happy.

"Well, you're on private property. Best you just get in that car and be on your way." She gestured with the shotgun. The other women nodded, glaring as us as if we were potential rapists, at the very least.

I got up, slowly and carefully. "Yes, ma'am. We'll do that right away."

Caine was already standing. He bowed slightly to the women. "We are ... sorry ... if we have disturbed you."

Then all hell broke loose.

Somewhere up the road a woman screamed "Fire! Fire in the barn!"

The cry was taken up immediately by more voices, and I heard the high-pitched shrieks of terrified horses added to the racket.

Exclaiming "Merciful Goddess!" the woman who had been holding the gun on us tossed her weapon aside and began running down the dirt road, followed quickly by her two younger companions. Caine went after her, leaving me no choice but to bring up the rear.

By the time I had covered the distance between us and the farm buildings that unexpectedly appeared around the next curve of the road, the fire was raging in full force. The barn was wooden and old. Already flames had cut through the roof and were reaching for the sky. It was clear that no one would save that building, but I saw several people run inside. I couldn't imagine why, until I realized I still heard horses screaming over the crackle of the flames. The owners must be trying to save their livestock.

Smoke and fire billowed up into the darkness as I drew closer to the scene of chaos, trying to catch my breath and take in what was going on. My first impulse was simply to stare open-mouthed at the conflagration.

Several people led horses through the open barn door. Watching closer, I realized that one of them was Caine. (Now, why did that somehow fail to surprise me?) As for myself, I sure as hell wasn't going into a burning building to rescue an animal. If Caine or those women wanted to do it, that was their business. I had more sense than that.

So I just watched for several minutes. Without really meaning to, I moved closer, drawn by the excitement of what was going on. Heat from the blazing barn prickled against my skin. Surely, the entire structure would soon collapse in upon itself. No one went in now. If there were any more horses left inside, they didn't have a chance. I was just hoping all the would-be rescuers had gotten clear when I saw a stumbling figure leading a horse appear in the midst of the smoke pouring from the doorway. It was too small to be Caine, so I figured it to be one of the women.

"Come on, come on!" I yelled, my voice lost in the crackle and rush of the flames.

Just outside the door, the horse reared up, knocking its rescuer backwards into a clump of bushes. As the horse bolted and ran, I could see the girl trying weakly to pull herself loose. A piece of the front wall of the barn collapsed not far from her. The rest would obviously follow soon.

I'm no hero, but I couldn't just stand there and watch someone burn to death. I ran forward into the fierce heat and light, grabbed a flailing hand, and jerked her free of the smoldering branches.

We ran as fast as we could away from the barn. The wall collapsed with a sharp crack. Burning bits of wood and sparks filled the air around us. We'd almost gotten clear when something hit my shoulder from behind with enough force to throw me forward to the ground with the girl beneath me.

I thought we were dead for sure, but then nothing else landed on top of us. The girl rolled clear, looking back at me wide-eyed. Before she had a chance to warn me, I realized my sweatshirt was on fire, ignited by whatever it was that had struck me down. I didn't feel the pain yet, but there was that "Oh, shit!" realization when you know you're in real trouble just a split second before it hits.

My first impulse was to take off my shirt, but some part of me remembered that you were supposed to roll on the ground and smother the flames. That went so counter to my basic instinct to get the fire away from my skin that I hesitated.

Caine appeared from out of nowhere and wrapped his cloth jacket around my shoulders, pulling it tight against the flames, which -- sure enough! -- promptly went out. He hauled both me and the girl to our feet. The three of us ran to safety, as my brain finally registered the pain from my shoulder and back.

"Okay, that's good, considering the circumstances," I thought, remembering my first aid training. When a burn doesn't hurt that means it's really serious. By then the skin has been charred and the nerves destroyed.

A couple of the women ran over to us, grabbing the girl, who was now coughing uncontrollably, and helping her to sit on the ground. I more or less collapsed also. Caine ripped the still-smoldering fabric of my shirt down off my shoulder, took one quick look, then turned his attention to the girl. That had to mean he agreed with my assessment of the situation. I was basically okay.

Suddenly, there were a lot more people on the scene, and they had "Taylor's Junction Rescue Squad" emblazoned all over their coveralls. Help had apparently arrived while I had been otherwise occupied. They lifted the girl onto a gurney, oxygen mask already covering her face.

One of the EMT's, a rather large young man, seemed more than professionally concerned about her welfare, trying unsuccessfully to hold her hand while the girl pulled it away. This was such odd behavior that I couldn't help staring, even while another of the medics, this one a female, came over with a plastic cold pack and laid it carefully on my shoulder. By now, we were surrounded by a crowd of women, among them the one I recalled as holding the shotgun on us earlier.

As the girl's gurney was lifted into an ambulance, the large young man said, "I'll go with her."

The girl shook her head wildly, pulling an arm loose from the straps that held her down and attempting to push him away.

Caine put his hand firmly on the EMT's shoulder, preventing him from climbing in with her. "I think ... she would prefer you to remain here," he said softly.

The young man turned, glowering, but our erstwhile gun-woman intervened.

"Ginny," she said, waving one of the women forward, "why don't you go with Montana to the hospital and stay with her?"

"Sure, Cora."

The young EMT split his glower between Caine and Cora now. Then he noticed me and his scowl deepened.

"What are these guys doing here?" he demanded. "I thought you only let women stay at your precious ranch?"

"I don't think that's really any of your business, Waylon," the older woman replied coldly.

With a muttered curse, he shook off Caine's hand and stomped off into the darkness as the ambulance pulled away.

Now that the most serious case had been dealt with, the remaining EMT was obviously about to devote her full attention to me when a police car pulled up not far from us. A dapper little man holding a doctor's bag jumped out and strode in our direction.

"It's all right, Alan," Cora said, intercepting him. "No one's been badly hurt."

He took a moment to survey the damage, looking almost pleased at the sight of the blackened, smoking remains of the barn as it was being hosed down by the fire company.

"Well, Cora, maybe now you've learned your lesson," he said at last.

"What? Because the barn caught fire, you think that'll make us give up our plans? My dear cousin, do you actually imagine I didn't have insurance? We needed a new barn anyway. The real loss would have been our horses, since I haven't been able to get insurance on them yet. However, at a quick count, it seems that all of them survived."

The little man didn't appear to appreciate this good news at all.

"What would it take to convince you that you're wasting your time here? This town doesn't want a women's ranch. Why, the whole thing has done nothing but make you a laughingstock."

"So why should that bother you?" Cora retorted. "Unless, of course, you feel my behavior reflects on our family name, or some such macho nonsense like that."

Before answering, the doctor drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't much. I doubt he could even match my own five feet, eight inches.

"As a matter of fact, it does. Ever since you inherited this broken-down farm last year and started spouting your feminist hogwash, I've had to put up with all sorts of snide remarks from my colleagues, and even from some of my patients. I've worked long and hard to build up a practice and make a name for myself in this town, Cora. Believe me, it wasn't easy. Now you come along and ruin everything with your radical ideas."

"Is there anything so very radical about a group of women starting a business, Alan? It's going to be a guest ranch, that's all. There are plenty of them in Wyoming."

"Sure. And they all give the tourists a chance to play at being cowboys. None of them focuses on women's role in the Old West."

Cora smiled sweetly. "Precisely. That's why ours will."

"And none of them offers refuge to lesbians, whores, disobedient daughters, runaway wives, and damn near everything else, just as long as it's female!"

"You're exaggerating, as usual. There are no whores here. Judge Dail's daughter, Tiffany, is legally of age, and Ginny Largett left her husband because he's a coke addict, as you well know. Montana's ex-lover can't seem to take no for an answer, and Jodie Franks isn't even sure she's gay."

"And these are the kinds of people you want working for you?"

"Have you got any better suggestions?" she asked archly.

"Talking to you is impossible!"

"Then why don't you do what you do so well and try practicing medicine?" Cora retorted, glancing significantly in my direction.

Without another word, the little doctor stalked over to me. He was clearly still furious, but he controlled himself enough to do a reasonably courteous check on my burned shoulder and general well-being.

That done, he told me curtly, "The police will take you to the hospital."

Before I could answer, Caine said softly, "It ... is not serious."

Cora's cousin looked Caine over disdainfully before replying, "Oh, really? And I suppose you're a doctor?"

"I am ... a priest."

The doctor put his hands on his hips and smiled indulgently. "Sure. And a priest knows all about medicine, right?"

Caine shrugged.

Lifting the corner of the cold pack, I looked at my upper arm and back over my shoulder. It hurt like hell, but I could see that Caine was right. This was mostly a first degree burn, with perhaps a couple of small blisters. No blackened or charred skin. No extensive areas of the body damaged. I didn't need a doctor. And I sure didn't need a doctor bill.

"I'm okay," I said. "I don't want to go to the hospital."

"You're declining medical treatment, then?" The doctor puffed himself up even further at that.

"Yeah," I replied. "I'm declining treatment. You got a problem with that?"

Confronted with my evident determination, he backed off. "No."

"Good. Then why don't you go see if there's anyone else who needs your help?"

I knew I was being rude, but I couldn't help it. The guy had pissed me off with his know-it-all attitude.

"Fine. I'll just do that," he said, picking up his bag. He motioned for the EMT to come with him as he went over to talk to one of the police officers.

With the excitement over, things settled down fairly quickly. The firemen began putting away their equipment, while the police took statements from a couple of the women.

Caine helped me to my feet.

"Perhaps ... we should leave now," he suggested.

We had taken only a couple of steps before our way was blocked by the gray-haired shotgun-lady.

"I don't think we've been introduced, gentlemen," she said, holding out her hand. "My name's Cora Stefanchik."

Caine bowed slightly and took the proffered hand. "I am ... Caine."

"And I'm Jeremy Langsten," I interjected. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Especially without your shotgun."

She laughed. "Sorry about that. But it pays to be careful these days, especially if you're a bunch of women by themselves. You know how it is."

Yeah, I sure did. It's not all that safe for gay men either.

"No hard feelings," I replied.

"Well, thanks for pulling Montana out of that bush, Jeremy. And thanks for helping us rescue our horses, Mr. Caine. We owe you both. I can offer you a proper bed to sleep in, for what's left of the night. And if you want to stick around for a few days until that shoulder of yours is better, I reckon we wouldn't mind too much."

I looked at Caine. He looked at me, raising an eyebrow a fraction and making a small gesture that I took to mean as indicating that it was my decision, since it was my shoulder that had been injured and my car we were traveling in.

"Even if we aren't female?" I asked, harking back to the exchange we had overheard earlier.

Cora laughed again. "Even so."

Much to my dismay, I realized I was feeling a bit light-headed. Must have been the adrenaline wearing off, now that the danger was past.

Caine took my arm. "Are you ... all right?"

I managed what was probably a sickly smile. "Yeah. But that offer of a bed is sounding better by the minute."

"Come on, then," Cora said. "I'll show you to one of our guest rooms."

We followed her into the main building and up a flight of stairs, with me leaning pretty heavily on Caine and hoping I'd be able to sit down pretty damn soon. Cora opened the door to one of a number of rooms off a long hallway.

"Here we go, gentlemen. I'm afraid it's a little dusty. We weren't expecting guests just yet. Fact is, we'll be lucky to have everything ready for business by next spring. There was quite a bit of fixing up to do, even before the barn burned."

"I could ... help with the work while we stay here, ... if you wish," Caine offered, seating me on the nearest bed.

"We just might take you up on that, Mr. Caine. But for now, you're our guests." She waved at the room. "Please make yourselves comfortable I've got to get back outside and keep an eye on things. Is there anything else you need before I go?"

"May I have some ... hot water to make tea?" Caine asked.

"Sure," she replied, as if it weren't a rather strange request, under the circumstances. "Kitchen's downstairs. Help yourself."

"Thank you. I shall be ... right back, Jeremy."

Okay, if he wanted to make tea in the middle of the night, that was his business. Me, I just wanted to rest a bit, then maybe get cleaned up. While the room obviously didn't have its own private toilet, there was a small, old-fashioned sink over in the corner.

Taking off my glasses and placing them carefully on a little table next to the bed, I proceeded to divest myself of the remains of my ruined sweatshirt. The MAID OF THE MIST logo caught my eye as I was about to drop the torn fabric on the floor. Lying back on my left side, I studied the little silhouette of the boat thoughtfully. I was supposed to have been wearing this shirt when they fished me out of the river beyond the Falls. Rather ironic, really. Not so very many days ago, I had tried to drown myself, and tonight I had come close to being burned to death. Water and fire.

No, make that water and fire and steel, I decided, seeing the old scars on my wrists where I had tried to slash them many years ago. I usually kept those scars covered with long-sleeved shirts, but I didn't have anything to wear just now. Well, no matter. The only person I was likely to see tonight was Caine, and he knew about them.

I let the sweatshirt slip out of my hand. It lay in a discarded heap on the floor, cast aside like my intention to commit suicide. It was only then that it occurred to me to wonder, if I wasn't going to die, what exactly was I going to do with the rest of my life? I'd screwed up so many things in so many ways in the past that I really had no reason to think I'd do better in the future. Maybe I was just too old a dog to learn any new tricks. I had chosen my path through life with no very great amount of care, and it always seemed to lead to nothing but dead ends. My money would run out, and I'd be alone and getting old.

I decided I was tired of thinking about it all, so I gave the equivalent of a mental shrug and pushed my dismal thoughts away for a time.

Since I seemed to have recovered from my previous light-headedness, I got experimentally to my feet. Yeah, that was okay. I tottered over to the sink and washed the dust and grime off my face and body as well as I could. My hair was a little singed on the right side, but I could live with that. My burned shoulder hurt big-time now, but I had expected nothing less. It really wasn't a whole lot worse than the severe sunburn I'd once gotten as a child, and that had covered a much larger portion of my body. Give it a couple of days and it would go away. Meanwhile, I should have thought to ask Cora for some aspirin or something.

Then I started shaking. Some part of my psyche had evidently just decided to react to the danger that had passed. I saw this image of myself screaming in agony, clothing and hair aflame. My stomach got that awful fluttery feeling and it was suddenly hard to draw a good breath of air into my lungs.

I leaned on the sink, clutching the sides with both hands and waiting for the wave of unexpected terror to pass.

I was almost back to normal when Caine returned to the room, carrying two steaming coffee mugs. He held one out to me, in obvious invitation.

"No thanks," I said, hurriedly scooping water over my face and then hiding it in a towel. I wasn't sure it was possible to see fear in someone's eyes, but if anyone could do it, it would be him.

When I set aside the towel, he was still standing there with the mug.

"Drink. You need the liquid."

I know when I'm beaten. I accepted the proffered cup. If it was tea, it sure smelled strange.

"It is ... hot," he cautioned.

He was right about that. I added a little cold water from the tap. Perhaps if I drank his damn tea, I could get him to go scrounge up some aspirin. Still fighting off the shakes, I sat down on my bed and drained the cup. It didn't taste as bad as it smelled, fortunately.

"Lie down, Jeremy," Caine suggested.

"Why? I'm not tired." Scared shitless, maybe, but not sleepy.

"You ... will be."

That sounded ominous.

"Oh, great! What did you put in that tea anyway?"

"Ancient Chinese recipe," he said, smiling inscrutably.

Whatever it was, it worked fast. I already felt more relaxed and a little spacey. That was a big improvement over stark terror. I took his advice and stretched out on the bed, face down to spare my shoulder.

I was rather surprised when he sat down next to me, but all he did was spread some kind of ointment, very gently, over the burned patch of skin.

"This will ... help it heal," he explained.

I groaned. "Oh god, more ancient Chinese medicine!"

Caine chuckled. "It is ... mostly aloe vera salve. I found it on a shelf in the kitchen." Finishing with the salve, he went on to rub the back of my neck and my other shoulder, which effectively banished whatever shreds of anxiety were left after being doused with his tea.

Damn but that felt nice! In fact, it felt too nice. I couldn't afford to let myself enjoy someone touching me. There were too many possible complications. Part of me didn't want to make him stop, but another part was already flashing a warning signal, despite the bleariness that was fast invading my brain.

I knew of one virtually certain way to make a straight guy retreat, so I decided to use it.

"Does it occur to you that I might be enjoying this?" I asked him.

"Rubbing someone's neck is ... supposed to feel good."

"That's not exactly what I meant."

"Oh," he said, his hands holding still. I knew he'd caught my meaning. Caine wasn't always quite as innocent as he pretended to be. I had learned that by now.

Much to my surprise, he went back to massaging my neck. That wasn't exactly the reaction I'd expected. He was supposed to pull away in disgust. I blurted out the first thing I could think of. "My reaction doesn't bother you?"

"Should it?"

How could I answer that? It was getting really hard to think clearly, but I had to figure out where this dude was coming from.

"When we first met on Cape Cod, you said you had spent a couple of weeks in Provincetown. Any of the gay guys make a pass at you while you were there?"

He missed a beat before answering. Maybe my question had thrown him off. "Yes," he said at last.

I figured that. Despite the fact that he wasn't exactly a handsome young stud, there was nevertheless something very attractive about the man, although I don't think I could have told you precisely what it was.

"Okay. When they did it, what did you do?"

I could tell from the change in pressure of his fingers, which were still persistently kneading my neck, that he must have done that half-shrug of his as he replied, "I told them I was ... not interested."

"Too bad," I thought muzzily. If I said it out loud, I certainly didn't mean to. In fact, I didn't even mean to think such a thing. But thoughts go where they will. Actions, on the other hand, may be controlled. That's something a lot of us learned quickly, once the AIDS epidemic began.

"Should I have ... phrased it differently?" Caine responded, either to my carelessly-spoken thought or to my silence, I'm not sure which. He was either impossibly naive or he was putting me on. Either way, I felt compelled to explain what I had been driving at. I pulled away from him then, propping myself up on one elbow so I could see his face.

"Oh heavens no! It's just that the usual reaction of a straight man to that sort of an advance is fury."

"Can one not ... just say no?"

He wasn't 100 percent serious, since I could see he was trying not to smile.

I laughed. "Apparently not. I never have quite understood why women are expected to be able to turn aside unwanted advances from men with grace and courtesy, while your average man feels as if he has to turn you down by using his fists."

"Many men react with anger to that which threatens them."

"Ha! Do I look as if I'm a threat to anyone? I'm hardly the rapist type. And I don't molest children either."

"Molest ... children? Why would you ... do that?"

He was genuinely puzzled. Or, then again, maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was still putting me on.

"Most people think -- oh, never mind! Let's drop it, shall we?" I collapsed back down on the bed, not sure if I was amused or frustrated.

"If you wish." He got quiet for a moment. I wondered whether I had said more than I should have. Then he put his hand on my good shoulder.

"Jeremy?"

"Yeah?"

"Go to sleep."

And that's the last thing I remembered until the next morning.

 

By the time I woke up, it was getting on towards 10 A.M. Sunlight streamed in the open window at just the right angle to hit me in the face. With a muffled groan, I pushed myself up off the bed, groping for my glasses.

"Caine?" I asked softly, squinting in the direction of the other bed. It wasn't until I had my bifocals firmly settled on my nose that I could see well enough to realize there was no one else in the room. In fact, the bed didn't even look as if it had been slept in.

Mornings aren't my best time, even under ordinary circumstances. I got muzzily to my feet and wandered over to the window, since I could hear voices and sounds of activity coming from outside.

The ruins of the demolished barn met my sun-dazzled eyes. A couple of women picked over the blackened debris, occasionally salvaging bits and pieces of various things. A horse grazed peacefully at the corner of a fenced-in enclosure that stretched around the house and out of my line of sight.

I frowned. No sign of Caine. I had rather expected to see him out helping the women. Maybe he was still in the house, having something to eat. No, on second glance, there he was, squatting down and almost hidden behind the still-standing skeleton of one of the sidewalls of the barn. As I watched, he rose slowly to his feet, head tilted oddly, as if he were listening to something, or looking at something that wasn't there.

I almost leaned out the window and called to him, but something held me back. He took a couple of slow steps along the side of the building, stopping once to trail his fingers along the charred wood.

I've never seen anyone sleepwalking and I don't think that's what he was doing, but I got this odd feeling that he wasn't quite "there", if that makes any sense. I mean, his body was there, of course, but it seemed as if his attention was focused someplace else.

It was doubtful that any of the women could see him, since they were on the other side of the wall and were, in any case, pretty intent on their salvage efforts. From my angle, Caine was walking away, towards what used to be the back of the barn. When he reached the end of the wall, he stopped and seemed almost to shake himself loose from whatever strange spell he'd been under.

Spell? What the hell was I talking about? I had to have been imagining things. The man had merely walked along the edge of a ruined wall. What was so odd about that? Maybe he'd been helping the women search for something.

I shook my head and turned away from the window, dismissing such foolish thoughts. Better to concentrate on getting dressed. I'd lay odds there was food to be had downstairs and my stomach had begun reminding me in no uncertain terms just how long it had been since I'd last had a decent meal.

I had already washed up and visited the bathroom down the hall before it occurred to me to wonder what I had to wear. Only then did I notice that my new jeans and Western shirt had been hung neatly on the back of a chair in the corner of the room, with my small suitcase sitting on the chair itself. Someone must have brought them in during the night, probably Caine. I found the jar of aloe gel on the side of the sink and gingerly spread a fresh coating on my shoulder before getting out my shaving kit and making myself presentable.

Do I have to keep mentioning how much my shoulder hurt all this time? If you've ever gotten burned -- and who hasn't? -- I think you can imagine that for yourself. It wasn't until the following day that the sting started to go out of it, but I tried to ignore it as much as I could and carry on. I may be a sissy, but I'm not a whiner.

Sure enough, there were plenty of breakfast leftovers on a table in the rustic dining room. I helped myself to a cup of lukewarm coffee and a honey-covered biscuit, glancing curiously around the room. Rough wood walls, open beam ceiling, huge fireplace at one end, but pretty rundown-looking. It would take a considerable amount of fixing, not to mention some well-placed antiques, before it could become anything even approaching picturesque.

After a couple of minutes, Caine came in and sat down next to me on the bench flanking the long table.

"You are ... feeling better?"

With my mouth full of biscuit, all I could do was nod.

His eyes flickered quickly toward the door, as if making sure we were alone before he went on.

"Jeremy, this fire was not ... an accident."

I almost choked on my biscuit, but managed to swallow it instead.

"What do you mean?"

"It was arson."

"How do you know?"

He shrugged. "I ... know."

"How?" I persisted, washing down the remains of the biscuit with a hefty swallow of coffee.

"I can sometimes ... sense ... things that have happened."

Yeah, right, I thought. And I'm the Dalai Lama. Tell me another one.

Fortunately, I didn't say that out loud, so I had time for some second thoughts. Kwai Chang Caine was one strange dude, but he had a way of being right about a lot of things. There was always the chance he was right about this too, for whatever reason. After all, it had been made abundantly clear last night that there were people who didn't particularly want this ranch to succeed. It wasn't beyond reason to think that one of those folks might have set fire to the barn in an effort to put Cora prematurely out of business.

"Jeremy?" Caine said into my silence.

"Yeah?"

"I would like ... to remain here for a few days. Cora has already said ... our help would be welcome."

He wanted to stay in order to watch out for these women, in case someone tried something else. I knew that, even though he never said it outright. That's just the way he was. Well, I had to admit I rather liked Cora and her friends myself. If someone truly was out to get them --

"Fine with me," I replied. "Although I'm not sure how much help I'll be, considering."

"Do not worry. There will surely be ... something that you can do."

That prediction wasn't long in coming true. I soon found myself sitting out on the wide porch that ran the entire length of the front of the house, cleaning and polishing various bits of leather and metal riding gear that had been salvaged. It was good to have some worthwhile work to do, even if it wasn't anything terribly exciting. A glass of lemonade sat sweating on the table next to me and birds called cheerfully from the branches of a huge pine tree.

Over the course of the next few hours, I had a chance to meet and speak to the women. In addition to Cora, there was Tiffany, hardly more than a teen-ager, but extremely serious and reserved, and Jodie, a little older but more ready with a smile. Montana was still in town at the hospital and Ginny had chosen to remain with her until she was released, which we hoped would be later today.

I managed to engage Jodie in conversation when she brought me a rather scorched saddle to clean and oil, thereby learning a little about the proposed guest ranch, which they called the Circle 5. As has already been mentioned, they wanted to focus on women in the Old West, in place of the cowboy emphasis taken by most guest ranches. While being open to both sexes, there would be no herds of cattle to play with, no rodeos to attend, and no macho cowboy songs sung around a campfire. What there would be was a serious attempt to replicate the sort of life a woman might have led, with old-style cooking on the hearth, authentic costumes (available to guests also, if desired), and a chance to play-act at being a character from the past. (They were considering more extensive dramatics, if that last bit went over well. Perhaps a raid by bandits, or some such other excitement.)

And, of course, there would be the horses, with lessons for beginners and plenty of trails for experienced riders.

At one point, I asked Jodie if they were sure this narrowly specialized gimmick would bring in enough business. It seemed pretty doubtful to me.

She replied archly, "Well, there's one guest ranch not too far from here whose 'gimmick' is a herd of buffalo. They do real well. We figure women ought to be at least as interesting as buffalo, right?"

I had to laugh at that, but I wasn't at all sure the general public would agree with her. I could see this half-assed venture eating up all the money these women had and leaving them broke.

When I asked how all this had come about, I learned that Cora had inherited the rundown ranch from a maiden aunt just over a year ago. When she'd come out West to take over her property, she'd gradually made friends with a number of townswomen. At various times and for various reasons, she had offered different people a place to stay. Of these, Tiffany, Jodie, Montana, and Ginny had chosen to remain on a permanent basis, investing money (if they had any), energy, and ideas in the project, which had just sort of crystallized and grown more ambitious as time went on.

After Jodie left, I looked around with a fresh eye, assessing the possibilities. From where I sat, the ruined barn was out of sight around the corner of the house. The front yard, interrupted only by a dirt road, stretched away into the distance, merging with a meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers. Off to the side of the meadow, I could see Caine working on a section of fence. From behind that fence, a dark brown horse watched him with patient curiosity. Further off in the distance, the land sloped down slightly, affording a nice view of softly rolling hills backed by a few modest mountains.

Yeah, the surroundings were lovely, but I couldn't see this place as a prosperous guest ranch. It would take more work than these women would be able to do on their own. They were dreaming.

But then, that was quite literally their business, not mine.

I heard the phone ring inside the house a couple of times, then Cora came out on the porch.

"Montana's getting out of the hospital in a little bit, so one of the girls will be taking the truck into town to get her and Ginny. Perhaps you and Mr. Caine would like to take a ride, and maybe look around Taylor's Junction for a little while? There's a museum you might find interesting, or are you not into playing tourist?"

I had to smile at that, considering the way I had dragged poor Caine to almost every tourist attraction there was while we were at Niagara Falls. Of course, I'd had an underlying motive at the time. Now that I wasn't trying to kill myself any more, it might be rather fun to see the local sights. If nothing else, it would take my mind off my painful shoulder.

(Oops, sorry! I said I wouldn't mention that again.)

"I'd like that, but I don't know if Caine will want to go. He seems pretty wrapped up in what he's doing."

"I'll ask him," Cora offered. "Goodness knows, he's done enough work for one day." She started down the steps, then stopped and turned back. "Oh, you might have to ride in the back of the pickup truck on the way home, unless you want to take your car too. Can you handle that?"

"No problem," I assured her cheerfully.

 

So it was that we found ourselves in the Taylor's Junction museum, while Tiffany went to buy a few things at the hardware store and then headed to the hospital. She planned to pick us up again on the way home, perhaps an hour later.

The museum was about what you would expect from a small town that lived primarily on tourism, but it was nonetheless fairly interesting to me, whose sole exposure to the Wild West had been on TV or in the movies. There were displays of ranching equipment, plus implements from the long-exhausted coal mine that had been the original reason for the founding of the town, a mock-up of a room from a "typical" dwelling, crumbling photographs and stiff portraits of important people from the town's past, a room full of stuffed specimens of local wildlife, and suchlike other similar items. There was even a section devoted entirely to the local Native American tribes, in an attempt at being politically correct.

I wondered about these people who had come so far across the country -- and I knew from personal experience just how long a way that was, even in a modern automobile -- in the hope of starting a new life. What courage it must have taken, to leave behind family, friends, all those familiar things, and strike out on a new path!

I wandered casually from room to room, reading all the labels and descriptions of whatever exhibits caught my eye. At one point, I realized I had lost Caine somewhere, so I had to stop and search for him.

I found him, predictably enough, by a wall of exhibits dedicated to the once-numerous Chinese population of Taylor's Junction. Rather than disturb his evident concentration, I simply went over beside him and began studying the display. It seems the Chinese, who had originally arrived in town as railroad workers, had stayed to labor in the coal mine during the latter part of the 1880’s. There were the usual photos, bits of antique clothing, and ceremonial objects. Even a large artificial dragon, which the placard informed me had played a major role in many a Chinese New Year festivals.

If I had admired the American settlers for their courage, how much more courage had it taken for these folks to come to a wholly different country and start all over again? I'd never have that kind of guts.

Meanwhile, Caine was inspecting the exhibits with evident fascination, almost as if they were long-lost friends. Once he sighed heavily, and I really wondered what he was thinking. But I didn't ask. I figured he'd tell me, if he wanted me to know.

Eventually, he reached the end of the display case. With a final smile for the elaborate silk dragon, he turned away abruptly and noticed me watching him. Making a small gesture with one hand toward the exhibit, he explained, "My ... grandfather ... spent much of his time in this part of the country ... when he came here from China."

"Oh?" I prompted.

"Yes. He was an ... interesting ... person. I have thought much about his life."

As we walked out of the museum and stood waiting on the sidewalk for the truck to pick us up, he told me a little more about this "interesting" grandfather, whose name he bore. Caine made him sound like quite a paragon of heroism, virtue, and wisdom. He clearly admired the man immensely.

"I am ... unworthy ... of my esteemed ancestor," he admitted at the conclusion of his tale.

Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that, pal, I thought to myself. But I kept quiet, having already discovered that compliments usually just embarrassed him.

 

We didn't have to wait long before Tiffany came by in the truck. Montana leaned out the window as they pulled over.

"I never had a chance to thank you for what you did --" she began. Then her eyes went wide as she glanced up at something behind me.

"Say, aren't you the two jokers that were out at the girls' ranch last night?" came a harsh voice over my shoulder. "Yeah, I recognize you. The big geek and the little faggot."

I turned to see the over-large EMT towering above me as Caine answered, "We were ... there, yes."

"What, did the girls invite you out for a little action?" Waylon asked nastily.

This was too much for me.

"If they were looking for action, they'd hardly want a little faggot, now would they?"

Waylon looked at me as if I had crawled out from under a rock. "Could be you're one of those creeps who swings both ways and spreads AIDS to normal folks."

Putting his hands on his hips, he turned away from me and proceeded to look Caine up and down. He had a good four inches on the older man, and at least thirty pounds, which seemed to be all muscle. Guess he figured that gave him an advantage.

"And how about you? What's your interest in my girl here?" He jerked his thumb at the truck.

"I am merely ... a friend," was the soft response.

"Friend, huh? Well, she doesn't need any friends."

"Everyone ... needs friends."

"I don't think you're getting my drift, pal," the big man challenged. "I don't want you hanging around her anymore."

Caine shrugged, as Montana said coldly, "He's not bothering me. You're the one who's bothering me. I said I didn't want to see you, Waylon. Can't you just let it go at that?"

"No," he replied, pushing me aside and stepping up to the truck. "I've had about enough of this nonsense, Montana. You're coming home with me where you belong."

Montana started to roll up the window, but she wasn't quick enough to keep Waylon from getting a handful of her hair clutched in his fist.

"I said you're coming with me," he grated.

Caine took hold of the other man's wrist, twisting it around and pressing his thumb into the top of the meaty hand. With a curse, Waylon let go of Montana's hair and tried to pull free. At exactly the right moment, Caine released his grip, leaving Waylon to stumble awkwardly backwards, fury clear on his face.

"Jeremy, get in the truck," Caine said, never taking his eyes off the angry man.

Hey, I wasn't going to argue. I'd seen him take on a bunch of guys who had knives and baseball bats, so I wasn't too worried. I scrambled obediently over the tailgate as Waylon charged at Caine.

Caine sidestepped slightly at the last possible instant, giving Waylon a push that propelled him in the direction of the museum steps, where the young man tripped and fell full length. Caine swung around smoothly and vaulted into the back of the truck, to land next to me with surprisingly little noise.

Tiffany gunned the motor and we drove off down the street. Waylon tried to chase us, but we had too much of a lead by the time he had regained his feet.

Caine and I got comfortable in the back of the truck as beautiful downtown Taylor's Junction disappeared behind us. When we came to a stop at a traffic light several miles down the road, Montana hopped out of the cab and climbed in the back with us.

"That was great, Mr. Caine!" she said enthusiastically.

Caine gave her a quizzical look. "The ... bigger they are ... the harder they ... fall?" he suggested, as if not entirely certain he had gotten the expression correct.

Montana almost smiled.

"True," she replied. "But first they've got to fall."

Caine did sort of a lopsided smile and shrugged. The young woman's face turned suddenly serious and all her animation seemed to drain away. She coughed a few times, grimacing as if it hurt her to do so.

"He says he does it because he loves me so much he just can't let me go," she said miserably.

"Love ... does not seek to possess and hold something ... against its will."

I squirmed a little at his words. Although my rational mind agreed with Caine, I knew full well I'd done my share of trying to possess and hold people in the past. Perhaps Bobbie would still be with me today, if I hadn't been such a --

No, forget it. That was over and done with long ago. I turned my attention back to the present, as the truck began moving once more. Montana had made herself comfortable next to Caine, who held one of her hands in both of his and seemed to be massaging her fingers.

It bothered me to see him touching the girl, although I knew full well he meant nothing sexual by what he was doing. I smothered the feeling before I could even admit to myself that it might be jealousy.

We made the rest of the trip in silence, except when we hit a larger than average hole in the dirt road leading to the ranch, when I managed to get my sore shoulder slammed into the side of the truck and couldn't keep from muttering a few choice cusswords.

 

After dinner that night, I helped the women with the dishes, even though they proclaimed that it wasn't necessary. (Maybe I just wanted to be sure they knew I wasn't a lazy macho pig?) Caine apparently had no such scruples, since I saw him leave the room. But then again, he had already worked much harder that day than I had, so I guess he was entitled to take it easy now.

As soon as everything was done, I hurried outside to catch the last of a fading sunset. There was Caine, wandering slowly around in the front yard, totally absorbed in playing an eerie and rather unmelodious tune on a silver flute.

Aha! So that's what was in that long leather tube I'd noticed with his stuff.

Rather than disturb him, I sat down on the edge of the porch, letting my feet dangle below the rough wooden planking, and listened to the notes drifting on the warm evening air.

There was something distinctly melancholy about whatever it was he was playing. It reminded me of loneliness and opportunities forever lost.

All the while I was listening to the flute, I was also absently watching Caine stroll around barefoot in the over-long grass. Then suddenly I realized -- and you probably won't believe this, but I'll tell you anyway -- that I wasn't looking at him anymore, but rather at someone else who looked one hell of a lot like him, but younger, scrawnier, and less well dressed, if that were possible. And this person played a flute made of bamboo, not shiny metal.

I blinked my eyes and it was just Caine again, much to my relief.

I was still considering this evident lapse of sanity on my part when I noticed I was no longer alone on the porch. The women were all clustered at the door, also listening to the flute. Perhaps tipped off by all those eyes on him, he glanced our way and abruptly stopped playing, with an apologetic smile in our direction.

"May we join you, Mr. Caine?" Ginny asked, lifting up the guitar she held in one hand.

Tiffany clutched a white plastic recorder, looking rather hesitant but determined.

Caine's smile broadened as he strode over to the porch, settling himself cross-legged next to me while the others pulled up chairs.

Jodie came through the door carrying some kind of an instrument I'd never seen before. It was made of wood, and had an odd, boxy, pointy shape, rather like a broad triangle with the top third cut off. (What had we called that in geometry class? Oh yeah: a trapezoid.) It had what looked to be at least a million strings strung across it in a complicated pattern.

Setting this device on a low table in front of her, Jodie took out two wooden stick-like things and plunked them down on the strings, hitting a few experimental notes.

"What's that?" I whispered to Caine, hoping to conceal my ignorance from everyone else.

"Hammer dulcimer," was the soft reply. "It has a very ... delicate ... sound, does it not?"

Despite its somewhat ungainly appearance, the instrument did indeed have a crisp and cheerful tone, not too unlike a harpsichord.

"Mr. Caine, do you know 'Simple Gifts'?" Jodie asked.

Somewhat to my surprise, he nodded.

Thereupon our impromptu orchestra launched into a ragged rendition of the old Shaker melody. By the second time around, it was starting to sound better. On the third repetition, Cora began to sing, quickly joined by the rest of us. (Yes, I can sing. I'm a halfway decent tenor, if I do say so myself.)

The words joined with the evening chorus of birds, insects, and frogs, creating a strange cacophony in the gathering dusk.  
'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,  
'Tis the gift to come down, where we ought to be.  
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,  
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.  
When true simplicity is gained,   
To bow and to bend we shall not be ashamed.  
To turn, to turn will be our delight,   
Till by turning, turning we come round right.

 

We sat out there for over three hours, playing everything anyone could think of that most of us might know, but it was that first song that really stuck in my mind.

After the sing-along had broken up, I remained where I was. Caine had disassembled his flute and was busy drying and polishing it, sitting in a patch of light from one of the windows a little ways down along the porch, while I looked up at the stars and wondered if I'd ever be granted that "gift to be free".

It seemed to me that I'd been enslaved all my life to various things; things like money, status, sexual attractiveness -- and, yes, even love. I dragged my meager successes and overabundant failures in all these ventures behind me like a ball and chain shackled to my ankles. And, like that shackled prisoner, I often felt I would drown in the deep waters of the future, hopelessly weighted down by that heavy, leaden past.

Soft footsteps interrupted my dreary reverie, then Jodie settled down beside me, minus her dulcimer.

"Jeremy, may I ask you something?" she inquired, very softly.

Uh-oh, I thought. But all I said was, "Sure."

"You're gay, aren't you?"

Damn! Why do people always know? It's not like I'm a total swish, and I certainly don't run around wearing a pink triangle or anything. (Well, an earring, yeah. But straight guys wear them too.)

I sighed. "Yeah. Why?"

"I was just curious as to how you knew, that's all."

I recalled then that Jodie was the one Cora had described as being not even sure if she was gay. Poor kid. Kid? No, she's in her twenties, at least. In fact, she was about the same age as my daughter would be by now. But I hadn't seen Cindy Jane since she was an infant. I had no idea what direction her life had taken, and would probably never know.

I sighed again.

"Dunno if I can help you much on that score, Jodie. Although there were a lot of years when I tried to deny it, I can't remember a time when I didn't know what I was."

"Oh."

She sounded so disappointed that I was struck by the sudden impulse to reassure her.

"Dear child," I said, patting her knee like some elderly aunt, "you have all your life to find out who and what you are. Don't rush it. And, above all, don't worry so much about it. You'll have your answer, in time."

"Do you really think so? I just feel so confused these days."

"Confusion is the beginning of wisdom." Now, where did I get that from? I wondered, even as I spoke the words. Sounded like something Caine would say, but he was still busy with his flute. I wasn't even sure he was close enough to hear our conversation.

"At least," I went on, "you won't have to deal with the same sort of attitudes that I did when I was young."

"There are lots of people who still hate gays."

Tell me about it! I thought. My ribs were still sore from the beating I'd taken from those gay-bashers, back when I'd first met Caine on the East Coast.

"Yeah. But there's another voice in society now. We've got people who support us, even if it's not everyone. That makes a difference."

"I suppose," she said glumly.

"Oh, honey, you don't know!" I protested, perhaps too vehemently. "There was no one on our side back then. Psychology said we were crazy deviants, the law that we were criminals, religion that we were damned sinners, and just about everybody else didn't want to know we even existed. Do you know what that does to your head?"

"But in lots of ways, that's still the way it is, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but now we're not listening anymore," I asserted bravely.

(Aren't you, Jeremy? Are you so very sure of that? Can you so easily dismiss half a lifetime of being told you're no good?) Well, maybe not. But at least the next generation won't have to deal with the same sort of monolithic homophobia that we did. The monolith is crumbling now, despite the often-violent backlash. (And the monolith in your mind, Jeremy? How about that?)

I looked over at Jodie, her face pale and downcast in the moonlight. She didn't need to know about the damage done to an old fairy a long time ago. She, and the others like her, would grow up in a new and different world. And who knew but that they might shape a happier future, for all of us?

I squeezed her knee gently. "However it turns out, kiddo, don't listen to the ones who try to put you down. What matters is what you are inside, not who shares a bed with you. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently."

I got a smile from her at last. In fact, she even leaned over, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Thanks, Jeremy," before she got up.

I turned to watch her go into the house, then caught Caine's eye. He smiled slightly and raised one eyebrow. This time, I was the one who shrugged, instead of him.

 

We had a bit of a problem the next morning. It was shortly before dawn when I awakened to the sound of anxious voices talking about horses. I figured it had nothing to do with me, so I rolled over to face the wall, hoping to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, this brought me down onto my bad shoulder, which had now reached the stage of extreme tenderness, even though it no longer actively hurt. I turned back over again pretty quickly.

Caine must have risen earlier, as I saw him unfold himself up from where he sat on the floor. As silently as the proverbial cat, he left the room.

My curiosity won out over my desire for sleep. Hurriedly pulling on my clothes, I went after him.

The focus of all the activity turned out to be the corral, where two of the horses lay on the ground, in attitudes that didn't suggest health and well-being, even to my untrained eyes. The rest of the animals were still standing, but their heads drooped and one stumbled a bit as Ginny led it along.

Caine went over to Cora, who squatted beside one of the prostrate animals, stroking its head and murmuring soft words of encouragement. I thought it might have been the same brown horse that had been watching him work on the fence yesterday, but I wasn't sure.

"May I?" he asked, kneeling beside Cora.

"You know something about horses?" she asked skeptically.

"A ... little."

"Go ahead then. We've already phoned the vet. He'll be here soon.”

Caine leaned forward over the stricken beast, passing his hands rapidly over its body in some kind of a flowing circular pattern. The rest of us stood around watching this strange performance, as the first rays of the sun peeked over the hills.

It wasn't long before he sat back on his heels, looking none too happy.

"This animal ... has been poisoned."

"Poisoned? Come on now," Cora scoffed. "More likely some kind of sickness, or the aftereffects of being caught in the fire the other night."

Caine rose to his feet, shaking his head. "No. It is poison."

Ignoring Cora's snort of disdain, he went over to the pile of hay stacked at one side of the enclosure, while I followed curiously. He first ran his fingers through the rough stalks, then picked up a handful to smell. He even chewed on a piece, very cautiously.

Next he went to the watering trough, subjecting it to the same sort of scrutiny. When he dipped his hand into the water, I saw him get this glazed, faraway look in his eyes and he stood real still. Then he shook it off, raising a wet finger to his lips.

Satisfied, he returned to Cora, one hand searching through the leather pouch he always carried slung over his shoulder.

"The water has been poisoned," he announced. "I will need   
... a number of things ... in order to make up an antidote."

"You sure sound as if you know what you're doing, Mr. Caine," Cora said, clearly still dubious.

"I ... do."

"All right," she acceded at last. "What do you need?"

"Some common herbs, utensils for mixing --"

Ginny stepped up to him and took his arm before he'd even finished speaking. "I know where we keep all that kind of stuff. Come with me."

By the time the veterinarian got there three hours later, the horses were showing signs of improvement. He confirmed Caine's diagnosis of poison, but he prescribed his own version of an antidote, which Cora dutifully purchased and administered, along with Caine's potion. (It turned out to cost a heck of a lot more than the stuff Caine had mixed up, too!)

 

The rest of the morning was spent ministering to the horses and constructing a makeshift shelter for them at one end of the corral. I'm ashamed to say that every last one of those women could hammer a nail straighter and more surely than I could.

Then a couple of insurance adjusters descended upon us, poking around and photographing the remains of the barn. When they started quizzing Cora about possible causes for the fire, I was afraid Caine would tell them of his conviction that it had been arson, but he kept quiet. (I guess he's run into his fair share of skepticism from the minions of the official bureaucracy before.) Instead, he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk.

I decided that would be infinitely preferable to sitting around listening to them talk about financial loss and haggling over the actual value of what had been destroyed, so we headed off across the open meadow towards a distant patch of trees. It had been overcast on and off all day long, but now the clouds seemed to be gathering in earnest, draping themselves like ragged shawls over the stooped shoulders of the distant mountains and grumbling now and then in low echoes of dissatisfaction.

"Looks like we've got a storm coming," I remarked to Caine, breaking the silence that hung between us.

He looked up at the shrouded mountains, as if he were somehow surprised to find them there, so far off had his thoughts evidently strayed. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled in what wasn't quite a sigh but seemed more like an expression of frustration.

Noticing something on the ground, he stopped short, squatted down, and picked a couple of sprigs of some sort of prickly-looking plant that was growing among the scattering of grass and weeds. He stood up again, examining the stuff he'd picked in minute detail.

"Jeremy," he began, almost as much to the vegetation in his hand as to me, "I ... know ... who poisoned the horses."

I just looked at him and raised my eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

"It was that very large and unpleasant man ... who says he loves Montana."

"Waylon Harrell?" I asked, searching my memory for the last name.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Evidently satisfied, he stowed his handful of whatever-it-was in his shoulder bag and continued walking.

I didn't bother to ask him how he could be so positive. I wasn't sure I even wanted to know, but he had this habit of being right about things, as I believe I've already mentioned. Besides, it fit. Waylon certainly had no love for the Circle 5 Ranch.

"Okay, suppose he did," I replied. "I guess you don't have any kind of proof, do you? Something we could take to the police?"

He shook his head. Somehow that didn't surprise me. "So what do we do about it?" I asked. 

"I ... do not know."

"I don't suppose you'd consider confronting him and beating the truth out of him, would you?"

"Jeremy ..." Caine began admonishingly, stopping abruptly and turning to face me. It was funny how he could pronounce my name as if each syllable were separate and distinct, instead of running them together the way most folks do. "You are the one who ... accused ... me of preaching non-violence and then beating people up, ... are you not?"

Yeah. That was some of the shit I had thrown in his face as we stood by the Niagara River. But I'd been trying to hurt him then, trying to make him feel the same kind of self-loathing and despair that lurked in the darkness of my soul. Lucky for me, it hadn't worked.

I raised one hand and smiled, conceding defeat. "Relax. I didn't mean what I said about Waylon. There must be some other way."

"There is ... always ... another way."

"Yeah, well, when you think of it, let me know, huh?"

"I wonder what ... my grandfather would have done?"

"Does it matter? You're here. He's not," I pointed out reasonably.

"For me, he is ... always ... here."

Talk about being haunted!

"Well, if he comes up with any good suggestions, be sure to let me in on them."

"I ... will," he answered in all seriousness, as if he hadn't noticed that I was kidding him.

We continued our uneven progress across the meadow and through the woods, with Caine stopping every so often to store odd bits of plant material in his bag.

Shortly after we got back to the house, the clouds made good on their mumbled promise of rain. The insurance adjusters left in a deluge of water, with thunder crackling and lightning hissing overhead. (When it storms in Wyoming, it really storms!)

The electricity went out not long afterwards. Undaunted, the women lit a fire in the fireplace and proceeded to cook a perfectly delicious dinner on the hearth. As darkness fell, we lit candles and a few kerosene lanterns. Then everyone dug out their musical instruments and we did our best to drown out the falling rain and diminishing peals of thunder.

In the flickering light thrown by the candles and the dying fire on the hearth, with the storm raging outside and the wind howling in the chimney while a cast iron teapot hung over the glowing coals, it occurred to me that this room could have looked very much the same 100 years ago. It was a small oasis of cheer, amid the vast plain of darkness surrounding us. Had those early settlers also felt the weight of that huge emptiness, dreading the dangers that might lurk in the night? Had the children whimpered in their makeshift beds, while the adults wondered just what the hell they had been thinking to leave the familiar safety of their old lives to come out here to this barren and desolate place?

I glanced at Caine, who was playing one of his eerie melodies on the flute while the women listened and stared into the fire. Had some of those fearful folks looked at the world out of oriental eyes, feeling themselves twice strangers in a strange land?

A shiver went up my spine. I moved closer to the hearth and poured myself another cup of tea, trying to vanquish the cold feeling in my mind.

 

The following day dawned bright and clear, but I managed to sleep late anyway. By the time I had gotten dressed and grabbed a bite to eat, everyone else had been out and about their various labors for several hours. I finally found Caine in the corral checking up on the horses. I had barely made my way over to him when Jodie arrived also, staggering under the weight of a heavy saddle.

"Hey, guys! Want to help me exercise these lazy creatures?" she called cheerfully. Then she noticed what Caine was doing and added quickly, "That is, if you think they're healthy enough for a little ride, Mr. Caine?"

"These two ... are not yet wholly well," he said, indicating the one closest to him and a dark brown one nearby, "but the others are fine."

"Great!" She turned to me. "What do you say? Want to come?"

"Sorry, kiddo, but I don't know how to ride," I confessed.

She dumped the saddle at my feet. "That's no problem. I'll teach you, then we can go."

"Wait a minute now!"

"Oh, come on," she insisted with the overbearing enthusiasm of youth. "You'll love it."

I wasn't too sure about that. "Well --"

Taking that for an answer, she turned to Caine.

"Want to join us?"

He smiled and shook his head. "No. But I will help you ... get the rest of the riding gear."

"Okay," she agreed and led him away, leaving me to wonder why she accepted his refusal at face value when she wouldn't accept mine. Am I such an obvious wimp? Or could she tell somehow that I actually thought it might be kind of fun, but I was afraid of making a complete fool of myself?

So it was that I ended up astride a cream-colored mare. Jodie had assured me this was the gentlest and most docile one of the entire bunch, but the beast seemed rather daunting to me, on the basis of sheer size alone.

We were out beyond the corral in the meadow, with Jodie on another horse leading me around in a big circle, while Caine sat perched on the top rail of the fence, watching us. Although I felt a certain sense of accomplishment for being daring enough to attempt something that my usually more venturesome companion had refused to do, my pride, along with another certain part of my anatomy, had taken a considerable beating as I jounced along, trying to learn how to keep my seat while trotting.

 

"I think you've just about got the hang of it, Jeremy," Jodie said at last. "Ready to take on one of the easier trails?"

"Maybe. But I've got to stretch my legs for a minute first." I eyed the distance from my saddle to the ground uncertainly. "How do you get off one of these critters?"

Jodie laughed. "Wait one and I'll come help you." Swinging one leg over the top of her horse's rump, she slid gracefully down to the ground and strode over to take my mare's bridle.

Before I could imitate what she had done, Tiffany came pelting out of the house in our direction, shouting, "Mr. Caine! Jeremy! Waylon just kidnapped Montana!"

"Where did he go?" Caine asked, jumping down from the fence.

She pointed along the road, where a rising cloud of dust betrayed the passage of a fast-moving vehicle.

To my complete surprise, Caine leaped onto Jodie's horse and took off expertly at a gallop across the open field, obviously intending to intercept the truck before it could reach the main highway. So much for my theory that he couldn't ride.

"He's got a gun!" Tiffany shouted after him. "Cora's calling the police right now!"

I kicked my mare's flanks, wondering if I'd simply succeed in falling off if I tried to follow Caine. It turned out to be easier, although more frightening, to keep my seat once the horse began to gallop. Nevertheless, I hung onto the saddle horn for dear life with one hand, clutching the reins with the other as we careened across the meadow.

I caught sight of the truck as it swung around a curve and cleared a stand of trees. Caine was closing on it fast, but I wasn't making that kind of speed. I aimed my horse at a point further along the road, almost where it joined the highway. In the few quick glances I could spare from watching where I was going, I saw Caine come up alongside the lurching vehicle and leap from his horse into the bed of the truck. I wasn't real sure what he planned to do from there.

Come to think of it, I wasn't at all sure just what I planned to do, even if I caught up with them. I was pretty certain a horse couldn't keep up with a truck for any length of time, especially once Waylon reached the paved highway.

But it never came to a race. Half in the bed of the truck and half clinging to the side of the cab, Caine reached in the window, struggling with Waylon for control of the vehicle. Or maybe he was just trying to take away Waylon's gun. I was too far away to tell for sure. At any rate, the truck slowed down considerably, then began weaving back and forth across the road, finally running off entirely and ending up at the bottom of the shallow ditch that ran alongside. Caine jumped clear as the truck skidded to a stop, front tires sunk into the mucky water of the ditch.

I managed to convince my mare to stop near where the truck had gone off the road. I had already slid awkwardly out of the saddle and down onto solid ground by the time Waylon climbed out of the cab, dragging Montana behind him. At the same moment, Cora pulled up in her truck. Slamming on the brakes, she got out, a determined look in her eyes and a shotgun in her hands.

Catching sight of Cora and her gun, Waylon clamped one arm around Montana's neck and pointed his revolver at her head.

"Keep away from me, or I'll shoot her!" he threatened.

This didn't look like a particularly good situation to me. If this guy was a big enough asshole to actually kill the woman he claimed to love, there wasn't much hope for him. Right, Jeremy, I thought unhappily. Now do you think you can convince him of that? Not likely!

Cora came to a stop just a little to one side of me. "Come on, Waylon," she coaxed, taking another step in his direction. "You don't want to do this. Let her go."

Waylon was having none of it. He was clear of the truck, but still down in the ditch.

"Damn it, bitch!" he shouted up at us. "Don't you come any closer! I'll shoot! I swear I will!"

He continued up the slope, pulling Montana along with him. I saw Caine appear from behind a clump of bushes, moving cautiously through the tall grass and bulrushes in a direction that would bring him up behind Waylon, if the other man didn't notice him first. I knew Caine could move quietly, but that would be difficult in this terrain. Perhaps a little distraction was in order.

"What do you hope to accomplish by this?" I asked agreeably. "Why don't you just give up before you do something you'll be sorry for?"

"Like what?" he snarled. "Shoot you, perhaps? One less faggot in the world would be no great loss."

Nice guy, wasn't he?

"I'm not talking about me, asshole. I meant Montana."

All I was doing was stalling for time, hoping to allow Caine to get close enough to take him out. I was pretty sure he could do it, if he could get within reach. Waylon was out of the ditch by now. He stopped by the side of the road, his eyes flickering warily between me and Cora.

"She's mine!" he said defiantly. "I have a right to her love."

"No one has that right," Cora stated decisively. She had to have noticed Caine too, but her eyes never strayed in his direction. "This is pride and foolishness, not love."

"What would you know about it, you dried up old maid?" Waylon sneered.

"I've been in love. And I have cared greatly for many people," was her quiet response. My respect for Cora went up another notch.

Caine was awfully close by now. In fact, he was standing right behind them, surely within reach of the younger man. But he made no move to interfere. Maybe it would be too risky. After all, the gun was up against Montana's temple. It would take an incredibly fast movement to get it away before Waylon could squeeze the trigger. Maybe Caine was afraid to take that chance, or maybe he just wanted to get closer still.

I fixed Waylon with my best look of disdain, shaking my head in disgust. "Okay, sure. Shoot her," I said. "That's real smart. Then turn the gun on yourself, or go to prison for murder. That'll be lots of fun. I guarantee it."

I saw the anger redden his face and twist his mouth into a snarl. I changed my tone, making it into a challenge.

"Or maybe you could try acting like a man, instead of like a little boy throwing a temper tantrum, and make a real effort to win the affection of the woman you say you love in the only way possible: by showing her your own love."

I didn't honestly expect him to buy that. I was talking for the sake of talking, hoping Caine would act to settle this mess before it got worse.

"I am showing her my love!" Waylon retorted. "Why in the hell do you think I'm doing all this?"

That last remark ran through me like a sword. I had it then. I understood where he was coming from. Like so many men, Waylon knew no other way to show his love except through jealousy and possessiveness. It wasn't necessarily that he didn't want to: he simply didn't know how. Maybe I could get through to this guy after all.

"Turn it around, man!" I said desperately. "If the gun was pointed at your head, what would you feel? Fear? Anger? You can just bet it wouldn't be love or affection. You can get a lot of things at gunpoint, but love isn't one of them."

I seemed to have his attention now. I could see the conflict on his face. His eyes darted from me to Montana, then back to me. Suddenly I knew what Caine was waiting for: he was waiting for me to talk this guy into changing his mind and changing his entire way of thinking.

"That's not the way it is," Waylon objected uncertainly.

"Oh, isn't it?" I answered, not at all sure I had what it took to make him see another viewpoint. But I had to try.

"Any coward can pull a trigger. It takes guts to earn someone's respect and love." Yeah. The guts I never had with Bobbie. But at least I had never tried to blow his head off. That had to be worth something.

"What are you talking about?" Waylon asked.

"Damn it, do we have to spell it out for you?" Cora interjected. "You show love by treating her the way you want her to treat you, and by respecting her integrity and freedom. Words don't work. Flowers and gifts don't work. Threats for sure don't work. Is that so hard to understand?"

The big man was really snafued now. His grip on Montana's neck had loosened, but she stood very still, not even trying to break free. The barrel of the gun wavered beside her head. Caine could have taken Waylon now, but still he didn't move.

"What would I have to do to show how much I love her?" Waylon demanded of us.

Cora shrugged and nodded toward the woman in his arms. "Why don't you ask her?" she suggested.

"Montana?" Waylon said, as if that suggestion was entirely new to him. "Honey, are these folks right?"

A swift rush of relief washed over the girl's face. "If you're too stupid to know truth when you hear it, Waylon Harrell, what do you expect me to say? Or do you think I'm enjoying all this nonsense?"

I had to give her credit. She sounded awfully brave for someone who still had a gun aimed at her head.

"What could I do to make you believe me?"

"Well, for starters, you could give me that damn revolver and stop acting like a fool."

For a second there, I thought it was really going to be that easy. But the big man shook his head.

"Uh-uh. I don't think so."

Time for a slightly different approach.

"Maybe you could start with something a little easier," I suggested reasonably. "Like admitting you're the one responsible for burning the barn and poisoning the horses?"

"How did you --?" he began. "I mean, what makes you think I did that?"

"Oh, call it a hunch. Or maybe someone saw you, someone who was afraid to come forward at first. Or maybe we found tire marks that just happen to match your truck," I bluffed. "Does it really matter?"

"Aw, shit!"

Montana rounded on him angrily. "Waylon, how could you?"

"Aw, honey, I was just mad at you and all those women and figured I'd put a crimp in your plans. You gonna be mad at me again?"

Montana was fixing to light into him something fierce despite the gun, when Cora said carefully, "I'll bet she'd be a whole lot less angry if you'd give us a written statement admitting what you've done."

Montana looked thoroughly confused now. "What good would that do? We all heard him say he did it. That should be enough for the police."

"I had a little something else in mind besides bringing the law into this. Hear me out." She fixed her gaze on Waylon. "You didn't come up with all this alone, did you?"

"Uh -- no," he replied.

"In fact, I'll just bet my cousin was in on it."

Red-faced, Waylon nodded.

"Dr. Stefanchik?" I asked, almost as surprised at Cora's statement as Waylon was. "How on earth could you know that?"

"Easy. Remember the night of the fire, when I told my cousin the barn was no big loss, but the horses weren't insured? Waylon had already walked away before I said that, so it would have been rather a coincidence that he would just happen to go after our horses next. Also, the poison was something a little more sophisticated than you can get in the stores around here. A doctor, on the other hand, has access to lots of dangerous stuff."

"But what good will a signed statement do?" Montana persisted. Truth to tell, I was wondering much the same thing myself.

"Oh, just letting my cousin know I have it and could make it public at any time should be enough to keep him from trying any more little tricks. He's not a very nice person, but he's not totally stupid. I think he'll have the sense to let well enough alone, in future."

Off in the distance, we heard the escalating scream of a police siren. Reinforcements were about to arrive.

Cora gave Waylon a significant look. "What do you say? Do we have a deal? You haven't got much time."

The big man gave in gracefully. "Deal," he said, lowering the revolver and dropping his other arm so that it tentatively encircled Montana's waist instead of her neck. She let it stay there. I began to believe this was going to work out after all.

Caine reached around and took the gun from Waylon's hand, then tossed it into the water at the bottom of the ditch.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Waylon demanded, nonplussed.

"I have been ... here ... all the time," was the soft reply.

Seeing that Waylon was no longer armed, Cora quickly returned her own weapon to its rack behind the seat of her truck.

"Okay, now let's act like civilized folks, shall we?" she suggested, as the police car came to a screeching halt and two uniformed officers jumped out, guns drawn.

When they discovered there was no one to arrest, they seemed vaguely disappointed.

Cora explained it all away as a mistake. "Just tempers flaring and people getting a little too excited over nothing," as she said to the slightly bewildered policemen.

"You don't need us for anything then?" one of them asked.

"Well, you could help us get this truck back on the road. Had a little accident here."

They could deal with a truck in a ditch. In fact, they dealt with it very effectively indeed. Once Waylon's vehicle was again serviceable, Cora invited everyone up to the ranch house for homemade pie and coffee.

Caine had rounded up the two horses we had ridden at the beginning of the fracas and stood holding their bridles. "I will ... bring the horses," he offered quietly to Cora, as everyone headed up the road.

"Thanks, Mr. Caine," she said. "For everything."

He shrugged. "I did ... nothing."

"I know. But you knew when to do nothing. And I think you were ready to intervene, if we hadn't been successful in talking Waylon out of it."

"I did not have to."

"Fortunately." She glanced toward the ranch house, where Montana had gone with Waylon in his truck. "Do you think they'll work it out?"

"One cannot know. But he is ... willing to try."

Cora nodded and climbed into her truck. "Want a ride, Jeremy?" she invited.

"Thanks, but I'll help with the horses," I said. "I need a little time to think."

Cora waved and drove away, leaving Caine and me standing in the middle of a rather muddy road. I took my mare's reins and we started towards the house.

"What is it that you wish to ... think about?" Caine asked me.

"You mean you don't know? I thought you could read minds," I said, joking.

"I ... cannot, any more than you can. Yet you knew why Waylon acted as he did."

"Yeah, I guess I did, didn't I?"

We went on a short way in silence, before I decided to talk again.

"I was thinking about choices, and the many different ways a path may lead."

He nodded slowly. "Jeremy, why do these horses ... follow behind us?"

Huh? What did that have to do with anything?

"Because we're leading them by the reins," I said. That was pretty obvious.

He held up the thin leather straps in his hand. "These will hold such a ... large beast, if it wished to get loose?"

"Well, maybe not. But the horse doesn't know that."

"You ... are perhaps smarter than a horse," he suggested, with the hint of a smile on his lips.

I looked at the reins in my hand, and heard the steady clip-crop of the obedient animal behind me.

"So if I don't like the path my life is on, it's possible for me to change it?"

"You are the ... only ... one who can."

"But that could be risky, dangerous."

"Yes. But have you not already seen ... the end of the other path ... at Niagara Falls?"

This real vivid picture flashed through my mind: icy water rushing around me as I plunged into the river not a half mile above the Horseshoe Falls. The welcome knowledge that I was about to die, even as my lungs fought for air. Then Caine's hand on my sweatshirt, pulling me up and holding me against the current, giving me just enough time to rethink my choice of death, even at the risk of his own life.

In an instant it was gone, and I was walking down a muddy road again, solid ground beneath my feet.

"You saved me from that."

He shook his head. "No. You chose to save yourself."

"And now it's up to me to choose a new path, isn't it?"

Caine just smiled, leaving me to think about what had been said as we walked the rest of the way to the house.

Something in my head shifted as we trudged along together. My mind automatically changed Caine's example of the horses into something more up to date, and, in doing so, made me realize it was true. My life isn't hard-wired; it's mostly software. I can play around with it. Yes, there's a certain amount of programming in place, but I can change it, if I learn how it works. There may be limits, but perhaps they aren't quite as set as I had thought them to be.

I felt something new in my heart, something I thought had died a long time ago. For lack of a better word, I'll call it hope.

I was free to choose now. There was nothing holding me back, nothing I had to do, no commitments to fulfill. I could walk into the future, and see where my path might lead, without that paralyzing fear of the darkness that had haunted me.

Why not? Other people had done it, hadn't they? What about those settlers, and those Chinese immigrants, whose mementos I had seen in the town museum? Then there was Cora and the rest of the Circle 5 women, who were willing to strike out in a new direction, take a chance on a new life. And let's not forget Waylon, while I'm at it. If even a bullying asshole like that had the guts to try to walk a new path, why not me?

I didn't have to pay attention to all the crap that dragged along behind me and tried to hold me back. I didn't have to give up, just because I might have failed before.

Sure, I had virtually nothing to my name beyond the remains of my paltry savings, but that might just be enough to let me start off in a new direction, once I decided what direction that was going to be.

"Okay, maybe I can do that," I said to Caine as we neared the house. Then another thought struck me. "But how about you? Are you just going to keep on going the way you have been?"

I haven't often seen Kwai Chang Caine taken by surprise, but I think he was then.

"I ... do not know," he admitted slowly. "But I believe I shall find my way, ... even as I walk it."

Hmm. Interesting thought. Maybe I could do that too. Right now I felt as if I could do anything, but I knew that wouldn't last. It never does. But at least I had been jerked out of the rut I'd been in. That had to be an improvement.

 

We left the next day, loading our few belongings into my car and exchanging hugs with everyone at the ranch.

Well, not everyone. Waylon insisted on a simple handshake. He was laying out the framework for a new barn, since he'd made an agreement with Cora to repair the damage he had caused. This also would allow him to spend time with Montana and try to establish their relationship again on a better footing. Sounded like a good deal to me.

I was already in the car and fastening my seatbelt when Jodie came over to me, looking as if she were trying hard not to grin. With a flourish worthy of a stage magician, she pulled a purple and gold tie-dyed bandanna from her hip pocket and held it out. "I made this for you, Jeremy. Remember me when you wear it, okay?"

I had to swallow the lump in my throat as I tied the gaudy bit of fabric around my neck. "Always, kiddo," I promised. "Always."

She stepped back from the car, her grin now in full bloom. "Come back someday and I'll teach you how to ride a horse properly."

"I just may do that," I replied cheerfully, waving as we started off down the road.


	4. If It Doesn't, It Never Was

IF IT DOESN'T, IT NEVER WAS

The sign read "Braniff 10 miles" when we turned off the highway onto a two-way road. After driving since 3 AM, I was pretty wiped, but Caine said we were almost to his destination, so I didn't feel like stopping now. During the last two weeks, I had driven all the way across the country, after picking him up back on Cape Cod, but I still didn't know exactly where we were going. I had asked him a couple of times, but I don't think he was sure either, except that he was headed to California. Wherever this nebulous destination was, I thought wearily, it had better be worth it!

I glanced sideways at my strange travelling companion. If I hadn't run into him when I did, I'd have been dead by now. As it was, instead of jumping off a bridge as I had first intended, I had lived through a couple of adventures that had made me feel that life might still hold interesting possibilities for a middle-aged, no longer beautiful, and damn near poverty-stricken gay man. But those adventures were coming to an end now. Caine would be going his own way pretty soon, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

No, that's a lie. I was all too sure how I felt about that: I didn't like it one bit.

"Jeremy, park the car over there," Caine said suddenly, pointing at a flat stretch of ground beside the road.

"But we're out in the middle of nowhere," I protested, even as I pulled over. The sun would be setting pretty soon, and all I saw was a lake not far from the road, with some hills in the near distance.

"One must ... walk from here." Getting out of my car, he flipped the seat forward and gathered up his things from the back. I didn't like the looks of that.

I got out also, stretching the kinks out of stiff muscles as I watched him drape the strap of the leather tube that held his flute over one shoulder.

"Is this the end of the line, or can I come with you?" I asked.

He glanced at me, then looked off across the lake as if he might find the answer there. "You ... may come," he decided at last. "You will need your blanket."

I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Why? We're camping out again?"

"Yes."

So much for getting a good night's rest. Oh well, I was probably tired enough to sleep on the ground anyway. Last time we'd slept outside had been in Wyoming and we'd been wakened half way through the night by some women with guns, just before their barn burned down. Wherever we slept tonight, it had to be better than that.

Didn't it?

I followed Caine along the edge of the lake. The sun had almost set when he stopped and pointed up at a fairly high cliff looming above the water.

"That ... was my Temple," he said softly. And yes, the way he said it, the word began with a capital "T".

I adjusted my bifocals on my nose, squinting in the gathering dusk to make out what he was pointing at. He had told me about the Temple, way back while we were at Niagara Falls, so I knew what had happened here. What I didn't know was what we were doing here.

"Is this where you've been headed all this time?" I asked.

"No. There is ... somewhere else I must go after this."

"Where?"

"I ... do not know ... yet." He put his hand on my shoulder. "But when I leave here, I must go alone."

There was nothing I could say to that. Ignoring the sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I shrugged off his hand.

"We're going up there, right? So let's get this show on the road. It's getting darker by the minute."

There had obviously been a path once, but it was pretty well overgrown. I tripped on every tree root and walked into every low-hanging branch between us and the Temple, while Caine glided ahead of me like a silent ghost. Damn! He was at least five inches taller and probably sixty pounds heavier than I was, yet I was the one who sounded like an elephant trampling through the brush. It made me pretty mad.

No. It was the idea that he was about to desert me that made me mad, but I didn't want to admit to that. Of course, there was no reason he shouldn't leave. Just because you save someone's life, it doesn't mean you have to stay with them forever. Part of me knew that.

But another part didn't want to hear about it.

After stumbling through the darkness for what seemed like half the night but was probably more like half an hour, I emerged from the trees and bushes and almost fell full length onto a flight of stone steps which were still mostly intact, although the building beyond was a mass of crumbled stone and blackened wood.

Caine grabbed me before I hit the steps and set me back onto my feet.

"We are ... here," he announced unnecessarily.

This whole set-up was making me uneasy. I didn't like the looks of the pall of shadows hanging over the Temple ruins, despite the almost full moon that shone through the treetops.

"Fine," I replied. "Now what?"

"We will go inside and find a place to sleep," he said matter-of-factly, starting up the steps.

"In there?"

He stopped, turning around to face me.

"Yes."

"Seems kind of creepy to me."

He gave me a look that clearly implied, "Creepy? My Temple? You must be mistaken," but all he said aloud was, "I can take you back to your car, if you wish."

I knew when I was licked. "Nah. Go on. I'm right behind you."

We found a corner that was still relatively intact and cleared away the debris. Caine scrounged up a couple of half-burned candles and lit them, giving us a yellow pool of brightness in the gloom. I had just about decided this might not be such a bad place after all, when I realized I had to go to the bathroom before I could even begin to fall asleep.

Bathroom? No, not much chance of finding one of those. That left the woods outside. Oh, well.

"Uh ... Caine?" I said. "I'm gonna go take a leak. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, come and find me, okay?"

He nodded solemnly.

I retraced my steps back to the great outdoors. The moon was higher now, or maybe I just had a clearer idea of the layout. At any rate, I didn't trip over anything as I paced off a respectful distance from the building and then pissed against a friendly-looking tree.

All of a sudden, this odd memory flashed across my mind. I was at a urinal in a restroom in Provincetown, at the tip end of Cape Cod. I had spent a long and fruitless night at the gay bar, trying to forget that Bobbie had left me and wasn't coming back. I was considerably more than half-soused. It took me a few tries before I could successfully unzip my fly and get down to the business at hand. My bleary eyes stared absently at the graffiti on the tile wall as I pissed, hopefully in the proper direction. I read the uneven letters, scrawled in what looked like scarlet red lipstick: IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING, LET IT GO. IF IT RETURNS, IT'S YOURS. IF IT DOESN'T, IT NEVER WAS.

I've read that saying many times since, on everything from buttons to greeting cards, but never with the same impact it had that first time, gashed like a bleeding wound across the wall of the men's room. I had broken down and cried then, and I felt tears stinging the back of my nose even now, as I stumbled up the steps and into the brooding darkness of Caine's Temple.

When I got back, I found him sitting cross-legged in front of one of the candles, his eyes closed and this incredibly peaceful look on his face. As quietly as I could, I wrapped myself in my blanket and curled up in the corner, leaving Caine and the candles to stand guard between me and the ominous blackness.

Exhausted as I was, I couldn't seem to fall asleep. I counted sheep, tried a relaxation technique I knew, counted more sheep, squirmed around in an effort to find a soft spot on the stone floor; all to no avail. Nothing I did silenced the awful whisper in my head that just kept repeating, over and over again, "He's leaving you."

Frustrated, I glanced surreptitiously at my wristwatch, then over at Caine. More than an hour had passed, during which time he seemed not to have moved at all, although the candle before him was rapidly burning down. From where I lay, I could see him almost in profile, his face lit eerily from below by the guttering candle.

My eyes just barely open, I stared at him as I tried to sort out my tangled thoughts.

Why was I letting this dude get to me so badly?

I shouldn't even have begun to find him attractive. In the first place, he was too old. And, despite all the impressive stuff I'd seen him do, he was certainly no Arnold Schwarzenegger. His clothes were shabby and rather nondescript. He didn't even have an exotic half-Chinese look, despite his ancestry. In a gay bar, he wouldn't have rated a second look.

And yet the more I tried to convince myself that it wasn't so, the more I knew that -- yes -- I wanted him. There was a grace to everything he did. Hell, sometimes I enjoyed just watching the man move.

This was totally stupid. One of the first things you learn if you're gay is to stay away from straight folks. It never leads to anything good.

But did I really want to have sex with Caine? I'd be less than honest if I didn't say the answer was yes, of course I did. Did I think I ever would? Nah. He was straight, and thus not available to me. End of discussion.

But the fact that I wanted him wasn't the most important thing. I've had the hots for many people in my life. That happens. Sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn't. Sex you can find on any street corner, if that's all you want.

Okay, then. Apart from all that, did I love him? No, not really. Not if you mean the "let's move in together and live happily ever after" sort of thing. That wasn't what I had in mind either.

So just how did I feel about Kwai Chang Caine? What exactly was it I wanted from him?

A father figure? Shit, Jeremy, you're pushing fifty; aren't you a little old to need a father? Besides, he's too young for that job. Older brother, perhaps, but that's about it.

No, I think I just wanted someone to show me it was possible to be good and decent and honorable, and not think myself a naive fool for being so.

It occurred to me then that it was very simple: I wanted him to teach me how to be like him.

Was that too much to ask? Yeah, well, maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't something one person could teach another. Maybe it wasn't even something one person should teach another.

Be that as it may, in that instant I knew I would have stepped off the edge of the earth with him, simply in order to follow him and learn from him.

But something else followed behind in the wake of this sense of overwhelming respect, something not nearly so nice and not nearly so easy to look at: he didn't want me around anymore, and I purely hated him for that.

He would leave me, as all the others had done. As Bobbie Ling had left me: alone and hurting, as if someone had amputated part of my heart.

Even as I continued to glare at Caine, I could see Bobbie's face in my mind. That had been quite a few years ago, but it seemed like only yesterday. No one else had ever quite been able to take his place -- and there had been a lot of others since then, believe me!

Bobbie was almost ten years my junior, and was quite simply the most gorgeous young man I had ever seen in my life. As you may have guessed from the name, Bobbie was Chinese. He had hair to his shoulders in those days, long, straight, and pitch black. I loved the feel of it. And his eyes were eyes that a man could drown in without hardly trying. To a thirty-something fairy, he was the youth I was rapidly losing, and the striking beauty I had never had even in my younger days. He was everything I had ever wanted in a lover, and more. Heads turned to follow us when we walked down the streets of Provincetown together, and I'm sure more than one person wondered what I had done to deserve such a beautiful boy.

Trouble was, I wondered myself. I never believed Bobbie could love me, and I made him crazy with my doubts and suspicions. I tried to hold him so close that I ended up driving him away. And I knew, even as I did it, that it was wrong.

I sighed and turned over on the hard, cold stone of the floor. Somewhere in my head, I heard Caine's voice whisper the words he had told an unhappy and confused young woman back in Wyoming: "Love ... does not seek to possess and hold something ... against its will."

Shut the hell up, I thought angrily to the voice in my head.

Almost as if on cue, Caine opened his eyes. Without turning to look at me, he said softly, "Jeremy, you are ... not asleep. Something ... is wrong?"

I really didn't want him to know what had been going through my mind, since I wasn't particularly proud of the substance of my recent thoughts. Pushing myself up on one elbow, I said casually, "No. Guess I must be overtired."

"I can help you relax, if you wish."

Yeah, I told myself ruefully. You'll rub my neck, like you did last time you put me to sleep. Only this time I'll start to cry. Or maybe scream.

Sitting up quickly, I propped myself against the wall at my back. "I don't have to sleep," I said bitterly. "After all, I'm finished driving you around. I won't fall asleep at the wheel tomorrow and get us both killed."

"That ... was not my concern."

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm not your concern anymore either, am I?"

No, that wasn't what I wanted to say. I wanted to say thank you for all you've done. I wanted to say I'll miss having you around. I wanted to say when you're gone, there will be an empty place in my life where you should be. But I didn't say any of that, because if I did it would have turned into the same kind of begging, pleading, hysterical scene I'd been through with Bobbie once too often. And the end result would have been the same. Love hurts too much. It's easier to hate that which you know you cannot have. So I resolved to do just that. The hell with him.

Pulling my blanket tighter around my shoulders, I rested my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. "Just go to sleep and leave me alone, huh?"

"Jeremy?" he said in that peculiar way he had of pronouncing each syllable of my name as if it were separate and distinct.

I ignored him.

That didn't work. He came over and sat beside me.

"You are ... angry."

I laughed. "Oh, you noticed?"

"I ... could not help but notice. What is troubling you?"

"You're the one who reads minds. Suppose you tell me."

"I do not ... read minds. If you wish me to know, you must tell me."

"Maybe I don't wish you to know."

He sighed, as he often does. "If that were so, you would not be sitting here glaring at me."

Aw, shit! I got up and walked away from him. The blanket still hung from my shoulders and I remember realizing that I'd better be careful of the candles on the floor or I'd likely catch fire.

I turned on him and said scathingly, "You've been wandering from place to place for fifteen years, and even now you aren't sure where you're going, but you know you've got to go there alone. Tell me, in your entire life, have you ever stuck with anything or have you just walked out?"

I didn't give him a chance to answer before I continued with my tirade. I figured if I kept him on the defensive, maybe he wouldn't notice how badly I was hurting. Shit, maybe I wouldn't notice either. "Look at this place! From what you've told me, it must have been something really wonderful. Yet you let it be destroyed." 

"I did not ... let ... it be destroyed," he objected.

"Oh yes you did! You walked away and left it, without even trying to build it up again. There must have been other survivors. Surely you could have gone on. But when you left, was there anyone else qualified to pull it all together again? Did you even wonder? Did you even care? Or did you only care that your son was dead and none of the rest of it really mattered?"

I was becoming quite eloquent now. I knew I could get to him like this. I'd done it before, at Niagara Falls, hadn't I? Like all the rest of us, Caine had buttons that could be pushed. Only thing was, with him you had to push them awfully hard before you got a reaction.

"Nothing matters to you, does it? You can just walk away and leave it all behind. Well, what about the people you leave behind?" No. Not the direction I wanted to go. Think of something else to say. "And what about the places like this, that have fallen into ruin because people gave up on them? Or did you ever really give a good goddamn about any of this?"

I should have shut up when I saw his eyes narrow, but I didn't have the sense to do that. Instead, I made a sweeping gesture with my hand and went on grandly, "Was your precious Temple nothing but a game to you? Or a cheap way to gain power and glory?"

I knew full well I wasn't being fair. In fact, I was being an absolute turd. But I didn't know what I was calling into existence until it struck.

I can't tell you exactly what he did then because it happened too fast. The next thing I knew, I was bent over backwards across a pile of charred wreckage, the blunt edge of a wooden beam damn near breaking my spine and Caine's hands closing around my throat.

I grabbed his wrists and struggled to suck in a few more molecules of oxygen. It took me all of two seconds to realize I wasn't going to be able to pry his fingers loose, but I tried anyway.

The look on his face was almost as terrifying as the fact that I couldn't breathe. Gone was the peaceful calm I had grown so accustomed to seeing. It had been replaced by an insane ferocity, compounded of utter fury mixed with despair. I hope I never see that look on anyone else's face again for the rest of my life.

In the next instant, Caine abruptly disappeared from my sight, consumed in flames and the acrid smell of smoke. The Temple was burning around me. Gunfire came in staccato bursts, as monks in black and orange robes fell before the onslaught of the invaders. I felt the ground beneath my feet rock with the force of a distant explosion. Blood ran from twisted bodies crushed beneath heavy blocks of stone. Screams and moans of pain added a human dimension to the awful noise. The children ... my child, my Peter! ... somewhere in this blazing hell, while I am powerless to save them.

And I knew who had done this and knew I had just let him run away. And an inferno of rage consumed my soul, as I watched the destruction that had been wrought.

Some part of me knew I was seeing all this as Caine had seen it. And I knew I was watching everything, absolutely everything, this man had ever loved destroyed before his eyes: his son, his Temple, his entire life. Could there possibly not have been such rage in his heart?

Then the images and feelings were gone and I was staring into the insanity in the eyes of my erstwhile friend and mentor.

Do not wake the tiger unless you wish to be eaten. Jeremy, you stupid fool!

But at the same moment that I gave myself up for dead, I realized something else. Caine wasn't choking me, he was choking that other man, the one who had been responsible for destroying the Temple. Although I didn't know who he was, I knew he would have struggled and fought to the end, even as I was doing automatically, and futilely.

My lungs cried out for the air I couldn't get past my throat, and blood pounded in my ears, but I fought down my panic and stopped trying to pull loose. With one hand, I reached up and touched his face.

That worked, where my desperate attempts to get free hadn't. With a wordless cry of anguish, he released me as if I had suddenly turned to flame in his grasp.

I sucked in a couple of breaths of air, not daring to move from the pile of wreckage I was lying across. Caine looked so totally aghast at what he had done that for a moment I almost thought he was going to smash his fist into one of the walls. But he didn't. Instead, he held out a hand to pull me up.

Although I could still feel his fingers crushing my throat, I took the outstretched hand without a moment of hesitation.

"Jeremy, I am sorry," he said wretchedly, as he helped me get to my feet. "I am ... more ... than sorry. I ..."

I shook my head and held up a hand to cut him off, as I coughed and tried to clear my bruised throat. I wasn't sure I trusted my voice just yet.

Now he was really worried. "Are you ... all right?"

I nodded and tried to say, "Yeah." It came out nearly normal, so I went on. "I'll live. Don't worry."

He didn't say it, but I could see from the look on his face that he was thinking he'd almost killed me.

"No," I said. "If you'd really wanted to take my life, you'd have done it instantly, not in such a way that you had time to change your mind."

"I did not think ... such feelings still lived in my heart. Nor did I think they could be awakened by nothing more than ... words."

"You'd be surprised what words can do," I answered. "Besides, I think I got a glimpse of where your anger comes from, and I can't say I blame you."

"I ... blame me."

"Well, don't! I've got a big mouth and I opened it once too often, that's all."

"You were ... angry at me. You still are."

"No. I'm not angry at you. I'm furious at you! But not because you tried to strangle me. Hell, you saved my life back at Niagara Falls, so I guess that gives you a right to take it, if you want to. I'm mad because you don't want me around anymore."

He looked at me without flinching. "You ... must find your own path now, Jeremy. You do not ... need me any longer."

So maybe I didn't need him, but I sure as hell wanted him. But I couldn't say that. I forced my lips into a smile. "Hey, look, don't worry about it, okay? I'm not mad anymore."

I guess my words came out as false as my smile, because he didn't buy them for a minute.

"Jeremy, feelings must not be denied. They must be acknowledged and accepted. Only then can they be controlled."

Damn! The man had just tried to strangle me, and now he was preaching to me. I couldn't let that get past without a snotty retort. "Yeah? The way you can control your anger?"

He just shrugged. "Although I know this, it is not always an easy thing to do. There is much here --" he gestured at the shadowed ruins, where moonlight fell in patches through the fallen roof, adding to the light of the flickering candles -- "that reminds me of what took place."

"So why'd you come, if you couldn't handle being reminded?"

That threw him a little. He hesitated more than usual over the answer. "I ... did not think that I could not ... handle it."

I'm not sure how to describe what happened then. It began with a noise almost too faint to hear and a prickling sensation of strangeness in the air, almost like static electricity. As the noise grew louder, this scary sensation ran up my spine, as if someone had almost but not quite touched me.

"Uh ... Caine? What's going on?"

"I ... do not know." His voice was just as calm and quiet as ever, but he grabbed me and pulled me closer to him, as if some danger threatened us.

The noise increased to a level that hurt my ears. At times it sounded like the thunder of Niagara Falls, but magnified to an unbearable point, as if you were directly under the cascading water. And then it sounded more like the crash and tumble of stone blocks and heavy wooden beams. Or maybe the roar of flames. Or maybe the intermingled cries of the tormented souls in hell.

I held my ears and squinched my eyes shut, as if that would keep it all out. But the noise went on unabated, ringing through my head until I thought I would go insane.

And then it stopped. I opened my eyes to sudden silence and beheld the most appalling and amazing thing I had ever seen in my life.

My first thought was that, somehow or other, we had managed to call up a Chinese demon. Now, I've never seen a Chinese demon before, but that was the only thing this apparition could possibly be. It was huge, at least three times the height of a person. Its body was dark purple and its head scarlet red. In one hand it held a double-bladed axe and in the other a trident. The face was one of those awful gargoyle-masks you've probably seen on oriental statues, while human skulls hung in a chain around its neck.

While the thing looked like something out of one of Caine's worst nightmares, it didn't seem particularly fond of Westerners either, judging by the way it took a swipe in my direction with the trident. Fortunately, it was even clumsier than I am. It missed by a mile.

My first response was that I had finally flipped out and was seeing things. However, it was quite apparent that Caine saw it too, so I discarded that possibility pretty quickly. Then I figured it wasn't real, but when it swung the axe at Caine and I saw him take evasive action, I was forced to reconsider that notion as well.

The monster took a step towards us. The hideously-grinning mouth opened and mocking laughter rang in our ears as we backed away. The oversized axe swung in our direction again, but didn't really come close. I had the feeling the demon was playing with us, as a cat will play with its intended prey.

"Puny mortals!" it roared. "Do you think to escape me? That is impossible!"

More laughter, and a jab of the trident. It came closer this time. I had to scramble to get out of the way, while Caine tried his best to defend us against the advancing juggernaut. But it didn't seem to matter what he did. If he kicked the creature, it simply didn't react. It wasn't as if his foot went through it or anything. He connected, but it didn't make any difference to the demon that it had been kicked. And the thing was so much larger, Caine could hardly attempt to throw it or push it aside. After all, how far would you get trying to trip an elephant?

By the time we had retreated to the point where my back hit the wall, Caine looked distinctly rattled. He was out of breath, frustrated, and probably starting to get seriously worried about our situation. As the demon swung his trident at us in a sweeping arc, I saw Caine do something I'd never seen him do before: he stumbled over a chunk of wood as he tried to get out of the way. The trident hit him sideways across his back and flung him face first against the wall not far from me. The demon was definitely toying with us, since it could just as easily have impaled Caine on that trident as hit him with it.

Even as I sidled over towards my fallen friend, I realized we were now literally cornered, as the demon had backed us into the intersection of two walls.

I helped Caine to his feet. Fortunately, he had taken the brunt of the impact on his hands, rather than striking his head against the wall, but he still winced as he straightened up.

"Jeremy, ... we are ... in trouble," he said, trying to catch his breath and swaying slightly as he stood next to me, one arm braced around my shoulders. "I cannot ... fight ... this creature."

I started to tell him I'd already come to that conclusion when the demon interrupted us with its mocking voice.

"Have you not recognized me yet, Kwai Chang Caine? Or you, Jeremy Joseph Langsten? You see, foolish mortals? I know you, even if you do not know me."

Caine looked up at the demon towering above us, frowning in puzzlement.

"Why ... do you attack us?" he asked. "What are you?"

"I am the spirit of this Temple, where men were taught violence and the ways of destruction," the creature proclaimed haughtily.

Caine stiffened and closed his eyes briefly, as if the demon's words had struck him a physical blow. Then he stepped away from me, took a deep breath, and made some kind of an odd circular gesture with his hands. I saw his face go calm as he answered, "No. You are not the spirit of this Temple, but you may be its shadow. And the brighter the light, the deeper the shadow. The two are always connected. The light includes the shadow, but the shadow cannot stand alone. This was a place of light and truth. You may not claim it for your own."

"Yet it is mine," the demon retorted. "Look around you." One huge hand swept the charred remains. "Do you see anything here but darkness and destruction?"

"Yes," Caine said firmly. "I ... do. And what I see can never be destroyed."

Suddenly the darkness was gone, and the ruins were ruins no more. I stood in a large and open room, surrounded by racks of blazing candles. Incense drifted through the air, mingled with the scent of flowers and summer air from outside. A group of boys stood watching silently as one of the older masters demonstrated a form, kicking, whirling, making intricate and graceful hand movements.

The scene before me shifted and slid away, out of focus. When it cleared, we were somewhere else in the Temple, where an elderly monk sat alone in his room, meditating. Then again, at an altar filled to overflowing with flowers, fruit, and candles, a young man lit a stick of incense and stuck it in a pot, bowing as he stepped back. In the garden, a group of monks walked slowly together, deep in discussion. And throughout the whole thing, there was this overwhelming sense of peace and love. But it wasn't just a goodie-goodie kind of feeling. This peace was earned through fierce struggle. And the love was built up a fraction at a time, day by day, with conscious intent.

There was a kind of holiness here that I had never felt before. My first impulse was to fall to my knees in awe and wonder. But where are the words to describe such a thing? If you've never felt it in your heart, my words will not be sufficient to show it to you. And if you have felt it, you have no need of my description.

My heart overflowed and my eyes filled with tears. I blinked -- and found myself no longer in that light but once again in the moonlight and shadow of the destroyed Temple, kneeling on blackened stone with a monster glowering down above me.

I glanced over at Kwai Chang Caine with eyes still half-blinded by what I had seen. He stood looking down at the ground a short ways in front of his feet, his legs spread slightly and his hands at his sides.

" 'And you will wander in samsara with all your projections turned into demons,' " he said softly, almost as if he were talking to himself. It sounded as if he was quoting from something, but I didn't recognize what it was.

Raising his head, he fixed his eyes on the demon's grinning visage. "You are ... not real. You are given form by our thoughts and our deluded passions. You cannot exist by yourself."

The thing laughed at us again.

"Fool! I am rage and aggression. I am passion and possession. And I am as real as are these feelings in the hearts of all humankind."

"That real, yes," was the quiet response. "But only that real. No more so. I have created you by carrying my own hatred into this holy place. And what I have created, only I can destroy."

He took a step toward the demon, placing himself in front of me and gazing intently up into those empty eyes.

The thing howled in triumph and raised the huge axe. Caine just stood there, to all intents and purposes entirely at ease.

A very bad feeling grated across my nerves. That demon seemed altogether too happy about the present state of affairs. Whatever Caine was doing, it wasn't going to work. He seemed to think he had called the creature into existence with the uncontrolled anger he had shown earlier, but he was forgetting something. The demon had also said it was passion and possession -- and somehow I didn't think it had been referring to Caine's feelings for me.

I looked at the grinning gargoyle and shivered. Could some part of that monstrosity be mine?

No, I couldn't face that idea. I'm not like that. I'm good. I'm nice. I don't go around stomping on people. Not me. Not Jeremy Joe Langsten. Oh no. Please. Not me.

The demon hesitated, axe flung back and ready to strike, while Caine just stood there, defenseless and all too vulnerable, thinking he had it figured out.

All right, so no problem. He wanted to be a hero. Let him. Maybe the demon would be satisfied with his death, or his soul, or whatever the hell it wanted. Maybe it would leave me alone.

I reminded myself how angry I was at Kwai Chang Caine for being so ready to desert me. Well, maybe I should just desert him. Who cared, anyway?

Torn, I stood staring at Caine as the seconds seeped by. He was directly in front of me, so close I could have reached out and touched him, and yet he seemed a thousand miles away.

I tried desperately to force the proper filters to fall into place in my mind, so I could look at him and see him for what he was: not some kind of savior or superman, but just another human being, whose death wouldn't count for much in the grand scheme of things.

So just what was he then? To the rest of the world, a bum without a penny to his name. A homeless vagrant. A drifter. One of the thousands of unwanted and superfluous people in our society. That was all.

I tried hard, I really did, to build up that picture in my mind. But then it crashed and collapsed against a reality more truly real than any I had ever known.

Merciful heaven, are we so blind that we place great value on power, but not on honor and integrity? On money, but not on kindness and compassion? On youth and beauty, but not on wisdom and insight?

Are we so blind? Or rather, am I so blind? For what else had I been doing when I had first met him, but judging as the world judges? Me? Who had flown in the face of society by being gay? Had I still bought all the rest of it?

Yeah, I had. But Caine had shown me otherwise, during the brief time I had spent with him. This one man, simply by being what he was, had undermined my faith in what society calls truth and let me see what truly mattered.

To that man, I owed far more than my life: I owed him my soul. And how had I repaid him, except with anger and jealousy?

All right. Payback time.

Trying my best not to flinch, I forced my eyes to meet the demon's. It had raised the trident in its other hand now. That looked distinctly unpromising. Nevertheless, I told it as calmly as I could, "Kwai Chang Caine's not mine. He never was. Neither was Bobbie Ling. No person ever truly belongs to another. Part of you --" I almost choked on the words, but somehow I managed to get them out, although I doubt it was in more than a whisper -- "is me. If I have to pay for that, I will. But what I have tried to possess, I now release. Caine is free to go. Only don't hurt him."

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and walked forward into the creature's reach, not at all sure what would happen next. If I died right here, right now, in this place, that would be okay. I wasn't seeking death anymore, but if it came, I would be satisfied. For I had touched the light, and I knew it existed, beyond even the darkest shadows of any doubts.

It seemed an eternity passed while I waited to be struck down or carried off or whatever it is that Chinese demons do to their victims. When something touched my arm, I almost jumped out of my skin, but when I opened my eyes, I found it was only Caine. The monster was gone.

"Uh -- what happened?" I asked, feeling the riot of butterflies in my stomach beginning to settle. "Where'd it go?"

He shrugged. "Back ... where it came from."

No. I didn't even want to ask where that might be. If Caine knew, he was welcome to keep that knowledge to himself.

"We did it then? We defeated the monster?"

"Yes," he said, sounding rather more sad and weary than usual. "As much as one may ever ... truly defeat a demon."

And then I knew where the demon had gone. If I could have cut that part of me out and sacrificed it on an altar somewhere, I would have done so. But things don't work that way. I actually retched at the thought, as if I might be able to free myself by physically vomiting up that evil. It was fortunate that I hadn't had anything to eat for quite some time, or I probably would have thrown up. As it was, I collapsed onto my hands and knees, gagging convulsively.

Caine had one arm around me and was rubbing the back of my neck with his other hand. Okay, he wasn't all that upset and he'd had to claim a big chunk of that monstrosity as his own. It could be handled. I kept telling myself that until my stomach decided to stop turning inside out.

"I'm all right," I finally gasped. "It was just a shock, that's all."

"Yes. It is ... sometimes not pleasant to conquer demons."

I had nothing to say to that. I sank back into a sitting position, his hand still massaging the base of my skull. How much had he heard, and understood, of what I had said to the demon? Surely, he'd been fighting his own internal battle and couldn't have had much attention to spare for me. Or so I hoped.

"Jeremy, I would ... not have survived, if you hadn't realized what I did not."

So much for hoping he hadn't heard. But maybe the full import of my words hadn't gotten through to him.

"Good," I said cheerfully, reaching around and swatting his hand off my neck as I stood up.

"Good?" he repeated, with the closest thing to confusion I had ever seen on his face.

I strode over and picked up the blanket I had dropped earlier, wrapping it around my shoulders. "Yeah. That means we're even. I don't owe you one anymore."

"You never ... owed ... me one."

"Sure I did. You saved my life at Niagara Falls, remember?"

"Lives ... cannot be owed."

Oh, no? But I didn't feel like arguing the point.

"So what do we do now? Stay here for the night, or leave?"

He looked at the empty place where the demon had stood. "We ... stay," he decided with a slight smile, picking another candle out of the ruins and lighting it from one of our earlier ones. The moonlight fell in gilded patterns across the rubble-strewn floor, while shadows danced crazily on what was left of the walls.

I sighed as I sat down in the corner. "That's what I was afraid you'd say."

He dug out yet another candle, this one almost whole, and added it to our growing circle of light, continuing until there were at least a dozen flames throwing a golden glow across the silver moonlight. Then he came over and squatted down next to me, placing one hand on my shoulder.

"I would like to go to visit the graves of my ... wife and son, outside on the Temple grounds."

"What, now?"

"Yes."

Somehow I knew what he was asking by telling me this.

"And you don't really want me to go with you, do you?"

He shook his head.

"I didn't think so. Go on. I'll be fine right here."

"You ... are not afraid?"

"Nah. What's to be afraid of?"

He nodded. "I ... will be back." Giving my shoulder a slight squeeze, he stood up and walked casually off through the shadows, leaving me alone in the haunted Temple.

Yes, I still felt that it was haunted. But not by ghosts. It was haunted by hopes, ideals, and dreams, now crushed and ruined and lying in the ashes. But can you ever really destroy a dream, or does it just go on living in other ways, other places, and other people?

When I fell asleep, I dreamed of candles, and incense, and stone, -- and a light that shone brighter than any shadow.

I awoke to broad daylight and Caine's hand shaking me gently.

"Jeremy," he said. "Time for us to go."

I nodded and rubbed my eyes. Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I allowed it to mix with the empty feeling in the middle of my chest. This was it.

Caine had his stuff already gathered together in a pile. All he had to do was get it arranged across his shoulders.

I did my best to smooth my rumpled hair and clothes, then laid out my blanket and began folding it up, resigned to the inevitable. On an impulse, I plucked a half-burned candle from its place on the floor, blew it out, and tucked it away in my blanket.

We made our way back through the woods in silence. We had almost reached the road before I trusted myself to speak.

"Any idea where you'll be going from here?"

"Chinatown?" he answered, almost as if it were a suggestion.

"Chinatown. Right. But in what city?"

Caine only shrugged. "I will know, when it is ... time ... for me to know."

"I guess I just don't understand."

"There is an ... old debt that I would like to repay. Someone ... I have been seeking since I heard ... certain rumors back in Boston."

Yeah, come to think of it, he'd mentioned Boston before, when I'd first picked him up.

He shrugged helplessly. "I ... cannot tell you anymore. Perhaps ... I will find nothing."

We stood next to my car now. Unlocking the trunk, I tossed my blanket inside, fighting off the tears that threatened to fill my eyes. I slammed the trunk closed, then just stood there, both hands flat on the warm metal. If I moved, I'd have to get in the car and drive away.

Then something happened that I don't know how to describe. Something flashed through my mind ... faces ... a very old man ... two young men, one oriental, one American ... a crowd of people in elaborate Chinese clothing ... and Kwai Chang Caine, dressed in orange and black robes, bowing formally.

What the hell?

"Caine?" I said, frozen in place by the kaleidoscope of strangeness. "I don't understand exactly what it is you've been looking for, but someday you're going to find it and more."

"Why ... do you say that?" He put his hand on my shoulder from behind and the quiet intensity in his voice shocked me abruptly back into reality.

I shook my head, trying to get rid of whatever it was that seemed to be inside my brain. There. It was gone.

I turned around to face him, still puzzled by what had happened. "Damn if I know. It was just this feeling I had."

He nodded. His hand still rested on my shoulder. I didn't know what to do now. How do you say good-bye to the one person in the world you never want to leave?

Caine solved my dilemma by pulling me into his arms and hugging me. For the space of several heartbeats, I held onto him tighter than I'd ever held anyone in my life. And then, purposefully and deliberately, I stepped back and let him go.

Getting into my car, I started the engine, put it in gear, and pulled away, ignoring the tears that ran down my cheeks and fogged my glasses. In the rearview mirror, I caught a last glimpse of him standing beside the road, wearing his jacket and hat and carrying all his worldly possessions slung across his shoulders. I smiled despite the tears. That was exactly the way he had looked when I had first encountered him back on Cape Cod.

As the car picked up speed, I recalled that saying I had read on the bathroom wall so long ago in Provincetown about letting go of something you love. It occurred to me that perhaps the saying hadn't gotten it quite right. Maybe it's yours anyway. And then again, maybe it never was, and cannot be. It all depends on just exactly what it is you're letting go of, and what it is you expect to keep.

I knew Kwai Chang Caine would be part of me forever, even if I never saw him again for as long as I lived.


	5. The Truth Beneath

THE TRUTH BENEATH

 

"On the surface, all is illusion. Sometimes you must risk all to find the truth beneath."

 

"Jeremy? Yo, Jeremy, wake up. Our next patient's here."

Kevin's amused voice roused me from the stupor I had fallen into. I blinked my eyes open in the semi-darkness of the MRI control room, gazing blearily at the computer screen in front of me. It refused to come into focus, even when I tilted my head to the proper angle for my bifocals. I blinked a few more times. There. That was better. My eyes always go first when I'm tired.

It was late afternoon and I was almost at the end of my shift, thank goodness. I had worked all day with Kevin, the MRI supervisor, filling in for someone who had called in sick. As a newly-graduated tech, I was damn lucky (and damn grateful!) to have gotten this job at County General, but there are definite disadvantages to working both part-time and PRN, which, for those of you not in medicine, basically means "as needed" and can be anything from zero hours a week to double shifts. As it happened, there was a nasty virus going around and I had worked for ten days in a row. I was about worn out, and the fact that we'd just gotten a computer upgrade so I had to constantly revise the knowledge I had only recently managed to drive through my overloaded, middle-aged brain didn't help matters any.

Nevertheless, this was the last exam on our schedule, and starting tomorrow, I had three blessed days off. So I greeted our patient's arrival with an understandable amount of relief, getting up from my chair and going out into the foyer.

I picked up the chart from the stretcher, looking to see that the list of safety questions had been properly filled out by our nurse. As was the usual practice, I went over the most important questions, like whether he had a pacemaker, with the patient yet again. He was alert enough to respond, but seemed pretty groggy, probably due to pain meds.

"This is a right shoulder we're doing, Jeremy," Kevin said. "Right?"

"Right...uh...correct," I amended. Enough redundancy already.

Kevin looked at me sideways and grinned. "Anything more I need to know to set up the scan?"

I hastily looked over the history section of the chart. "He's a cop. Dislocated his shoulder yesterday. No other serious injuries and they've reduced the dislocation but there's a lot of swelling, so the docs are checking for additional soft tissue damage. He was shot in that same shoulder a couple of years ago, so it's possible the fall aggravated the old injury."

"Shot? The bullet's not still in there, is it? Could be a problem."

Some kinds of metal really mess up MRI images. "No. It was removed," I assured my boss.

"Okay. He's good to go. Push him into the scan room. I'll come help you in a minute."

I did as requested, finally getting around to actually looking at the patient instead of the chart. My first impression was that he was an exceptionally good-looking boy. Nice body, handsome face, not too pretty, but just pretty enough for my taste.

Boy? Well, strictly speaking, he was a man. I took a quick glance at the plastic hospital wristband for his date of birth. Not too long now and he'd be on the far side of thirty. Pretty bad when you start thinking of folks this age as kids, Jeremy.

But I'm gay and he was certainly attractive.

I know what you're going to say. I'm a medical professional. I shouldn't be thinking such things about a patient, right? Sorry to disappoint you, but sometimes a person can't help thinking. It's what you do about those thoughts that determines whether or not you should be ashamed. Where a patient is concerned, you do nothing.

I sighed. Oh well, he was probably straight anyway. Very few cops are gay. (Or at least are willing to admit to it!)

Kevin and I got our young patient more or less comfortably situated inside the scanner.

In case you've never seen one, the average MRI scanner looks pretty much like some kind of a weird sculpture with a smallish tunnel in it. The patient slides into that tunnel on a movable table and is actually inside the bore of a very powerful magnet. (The magnetic part of Magnetic Resonance Imaging.) It's not really a problem, unless the patient happens to be claustrophobic or simply too large to fit in the tunnel. The gorgeous hunk we had on our table was neither. Since he was too drugged to do much more than lie there, I anticipated a quick and easy exam.

Good. The sooner we were done, the sooner I could go home and get some sleep.

Kevin set up the scan on his console. All my foggy brain had to deal with was doing the filming on the other console. Even so, with the recent changes in our software, it took every last neuron that was still capable of firing to guide the mouse through the correct command sequences.

I was totally focused on the screen in front of my stinging eyes when a soft voice out in the foyer inquired, "Excuse me, I am looking for...MRI?"

"You found it, mister," Kevin answered distractedly. "What could we do for you?"

"My son...has been brought down here. His name is Peter Caine."

Peter Caine?! The connection flashed through my brain like a stroke of lightning and I was almost as dumbfounded as if I'd been struck by that same bolt of lightning.

I turned away from the console and looked at the man standing in the doorway. Dear god, it was him! I was so surprised I couldn't move, much less speak.

I remembered back a few years ago, when I had offered him a lift in Massachusetts and we had ended up driving all the way across the country together. I'd left him at the ruins of his Temple, with no real expectation of ever seeing him again. And I remembered a lot of other things about that time, like the way I would have killed myself if I hadn't run into him when I did. But he'd told me back then that his son was dead.

Meanwhile, Kevin was busy answering the question. "Right in there." He pointed through the glass window separating our control room from the scan room, where all that could be seen of our patient was his feet sticking out of the tunnel. "We'll be done with him in about twenty minutes. Jeremy, would you show this gentleman to the waiting area?"

I got up and walked out of the dim control room into the lighted hallway.

"Kwai Chang Caine," I said. "Bet you don't remember me."

It took him a few seconds to study my face and sort through his own memories, but he proved me wrong.

"Jeremy...Langsten?"

I nodded.

He looked me over, taking in the white uniform and lab coat "You are a...doctor now?"

"Nah. Just an MRI tech." I leaned back through the doorway. "Kevin, this is an old friend of mine. Is it okay if I talk to him for a minute?"

"Sure. Go ahead. I can manage by myself."

Kevin's a good guy, as bosses go. He's one of the reasons I like my job. He's also kind of cute. If he weren't straight, and married -- oh well, scratch that idea. I'd already started walking Caine around the corner before I noticed that there was someone else with him, a skinny little Chinese guy in a black outfit, wearing metal-frame glasses almost like mine.

As I showed them to the small alcove with a couple of chairs that we used for a waiting area, Caine indicated his quiet companion with a nod of the head. "Jeremy, this is...the Ancient."

"Yeah, I can see he's pretty old, but doesn't he have a name?"

The little man gave me a slight bow and a not-so-slight smile. "I am called Lo Si," he said. His accent marked him as probably not brought up in this country. I'd once had a Chinese lover and some of his relatives talked like that, although Bobbie himself didn't.

"I'm honored to meet you." I don't know why I said that. There was something about the man that made me feel he was more than just your average senior citizen.

"How is my son?" Caine asked anxiously. "The doctor told me they are looking for damage to the ... rotator cuff?"

"Yeah. That's the muscles that make your arm turn, along with their tendons. Very easy for them to get torn."

"Ah! Those muscles. I understand now."

The one Caine had called the Ancient asked, "Your machine can show muscles?"

"Sure can," I said, beaming. I'm pretty proud of my scanner. "MRI's not like regular x-rays. We can see more than just bones."

Even as I was carrying on this conversation, I was actively checking out my long-lost friend. Although he still carried the same old brown pouch I remembered, his wardrobe had obviously improved since I'd known him. He wore a nice blue shirt with one of those Chinese collars, and his hair was much longer, actually down on his shoulders. He also looked happier, more "together", maybe even younger now, as compared to the last time I'd seen him. That was a pretty good trick. I wondered how he managed it. While I myself had lost a few pounds in the years since our cross country trek, my hair was seriously getting gray now. I had celebrated (?) my fiftieth birthday several years ago. Younger I wasn't getting, but it didn't bother me so much anymore.

A man came around the corner of the hallway, stopping abruptly when he saw us.

"Is Peter Caine around here?" he asked brusquely. I figured he was a nurse or a doctor, since he was wearing hospital scrubs.

I jerked my thumb toward the MRI suite. "In there."

Luckily, I was standing where I could see both the control room and scan room doors, so I saw him head directly for the scan room. That's a big no-no while we've got something running.

"Hey, you can't go in there!" I said, catching up to him and grabbing his arm just as he reached the door.

He turned on me, holding a gun like the kind Clint Eastwood carries when he plays Dirty Harry.

"The hell I can't, Doc," he replied, making the same erroneous assumption about me that Caine had made.

He jerked me around in front of him, an elbow across my throat and the pistol aimed at my head. From my unenviable vantage point, the barrel of that gun bore a frightening resemblance to a cannon.

Shoving the door open, be dragged me into the room and over to the scanner. Caine and Lo Si followed us at a respectful distance.

The gunman was apparently after our patient. He muttered a brief curse when he saw his victim inside the tunnel, rather than readily accessible.

The banging noise that always accompanies a scan stopped suddenly. Kevin had doubtless aborted the sequence. I knew full well he'd be on the phone to security already.

"You, in the control booth!" the gunman yelled. "Pull him out. Now!"

"He can't," I said. "The controls are in here, on that panel." I jerked my head slightly in the direction of the panel of lighted buttons to our right, about three feet away.

"Okay, then you do it."

I reached over, trying to pull my captor along with me. I saw no reason he couldn't shoot his victim while he was still inside the scanner, but that never seemed to occur to him. I don't think the guy was overly bright, to tell the truth.

Caine was inside the door now, but he dared not get much closer. I'd seen him in action before, so I was pretty sure he wasn't going to just stand there and let his son be shot. I caught his eye, willing him to know he shouldn't try anything yet.

The table began its mechanized glide out of the bore of the magnet. I had seconds at most before this guy would be able to get a clean shot at the boy.

"Please," I whined, making an ineffectual effort to pull away from the pressure of the arm across my throat, "you're choking me."

His attention more on the table than on me, the other man only growled, "Shut up." I shifted, my weight forcing him even closer to the scanner. I leaned harder, as if I were about to faint from fright. Absently, he allowed the pistol to follow my head.

As I believe I mentioned earlier, at the heart of every MRI scanner is a very large and very powerful magnet. A magnetic field increases in strength quite rapidly as you approach it. One minute it's not real strong, but go just a little further, and it is. Bring any large metallic object close enough and it will try to align itself with the field and fly into the bore of the magnet, where the patient is lying.

As the gun began to twist in his hand, my captor finally realized something was wrong. He pulled the trigger, but the barrel had already been deflected the necessary couple of inches away from my head. The bullet crashed through the meshed glass of the control booth window, even as I drove one elbow back into my captor's gut.

Caine was on top of us in an instant, jerking the pistol from the other man's grip. My opponent folded up, leaving Caine holding a gun that was doing its level best to wrench itself out of his hand.

Being considerably brighter than the gunman, Caine figured out what was going on before I had to tell him and stepped back a few feet, so that the magnetic field dropped down sufficiently for the pistol to act like an ordinary gun again.

Meanwhile, Lo Si grabbed the would-be killer by one arm, twisted a little, and neatly pinned the younger man against the wall, just as the hospital security guards came running into the room.

Our patient was entirely clear of the scanner now. He blinked and looked around, puzzled and still groggy. "Pop? Is that you? What happened?"

Caine laid a hand on his son's good shoulder. "Nothing, Peter," he said gently. "Rest now."

Peter's eyes fluttered closed.

As the security guards led their prisoner away, I grinned at Caine and the Ancient. "Sorry you guys had to come in here," I said inanely and probably far too loudly. My ears were still ringing from the sound of the gunshot so close to my head. "The magnetic field probably wiped all your credit cards."

They looked at each other, then at me.

"Credit...cards?" Caine asked.

I should have known better.

"Okay. Guess that's not a problem."

Then the city police arrived on the scene and we all spent most of the next hour answering questions about what had happened. Meanwhile, Kevin went ahead and finished the scan that had been so rudely interrupted, then had our patient sent back to his room. (I snuck a few peeks at the images on our computer. The doctors may or may not agree, but I didn't see any evidence of a rotator cuff tear. Guess the boy lucked out this time.)

When we were finally free, Lo Si suggested we all go somewhere for dinner. It took a little doing to convince Caine to leave his son alone long enough to eat, but we were successful. He did insist on going up to see that Peter was comfortably settled in his bed, while the Ancient and I waited at the front entrance to the hospital.

A few well-chosen questions from the old man and he had gotten a brief explanation as to where and how I knew Kwai Chang Caine before I'd hardly realized it. But I've got a pretty big mouth anyway, so it's not hard to make me talk, if I trust you. (And somehow I found myself trusting him, don't ask me why.)

Being no verbal slouch myself, I also managed to find out about Peter and how he and his father had been reunited after thinking each other dead for so many years. It sounded like something out of a soap opera, but I was real glad it had worked out that way. I knew how torn up Caine had been over losing his son.

Before long, Caine appeared next to us in that silent way he has.

"Okay. Where shall we eat?" I asked. "My car's in the parking lot."

"That will not be necessary," Lo Si replied. "The hospital is not far from Chinatown. There is an excellent restaurant hardly more than a mile from here."

"A mile? You sure you don't want to ride?"

"It is a nice night...for a walk," Caine said.

"Okay, I know when I'm licked. Let's go."

 

So we walked. As Caine had said, it was a nice night, early fall and not too chilly as yet. I had exchanged my lab coat for a sweater, which kept me just comfortable. The sun was almost down and the shadows softened the usually harsh outlines of the city. Pretty quickly, the signs on the shops began appearing in Chinese characters. I hadn't realized County General was so close to Chinatown, but then I generally just drove from the hospital directly out to the highway and from there to my rented room on the outskirts of the city where I had lived for the last couple of years while going through the radiology program at the local community college.

Now that I had a job, I'd be looking for a place closer to where I worked. But I hadn't gotten around to that yet. I was still surprised that I'd survived this long on so little money. If you don't want a lot, you don't need a lot to get by. Maybe that was the secret. At any rate, I had lived, breathed, and slept radiology for the past two years. Then I spent my last summer in clinicals doing MRI and found I had a better than average talent for it. That had led to Kevin's offering me my present position upon graduation, and my chance at starting up my new life. (Better get started soon, Jeremy, old boy. You're on the downside of the hill now.)

Chinatown wasn't my usual stomping ground, so I probably looked rather like a tourist staring around at all the strange sights as I followed Caine and Lo Si through the still-crowded streets. There were a lot of street vendors and open-air markets, so it wasn't real easy to stick to my friends and still look at everything. Most of the talk going on around me was in Chinese. I got this strange feeling that I'd been dropped down in another country somewhere, instead of the good old U.S. of A. It was actually kind of neat. I would have liked to have stopped and looked over some of the merchandise being offered for sale, or go in some of the stores, if I'd been by myself.

After my ears had shifted gear, I even caught a couple of the very few Chinese words Bobbie had taught me, way back when we'd been together. I could think about Bobbie without bitterness now, even though it still hurt. After he'd left me, I had never found anyone else who truly filled the void. But it had been my fault as much as his that we'd broken up. (No, be honest, Jeremy. It was more your fault than his.)

But that was over long ago. This was now, and this was Chinatown, in a new state and a new city. If anything seemed even the least bit familiar, it was probably just the faint traces of long-buried memories. So I stared around me in a pleasant fog of exhaustion and fond reminiscences, at the same time trying not to lose sight of Caine's yellowish jacket a few paces ahead of me.

We turned down a less populated side street. One of the lights was out and the shadows seemed particularly dense, but I had no warning of what was coming until Caine suddenly shoved me away from him and hard up against the brick wall of the building beside us. Then something knocked my left leg out from under me and I collapsed. Sparks flew from the wall where several metallic objects impacted in the approximate place where Caine had been.

Caine and the Ancient both stood in front of me, crouched into those "ready" stances you've all seen in martial arts movies. At least six people materialized out of the shadows, armed with various exotic and deadly-looking weapons.

A few minutes later, the only ones still on their feet were my two friends, with all the others scattered around the sidewalk in assorted uncomfortable positions. Astonishingly enough, none of them appeared to be seriously injured, just out of action.

As soon as our attackers had been dealt with, Caine knelt beside me, took one look at the blood soaking through the leg of my white uniform pants, then ripped the fabric clear up to my knee. Meanwhile, the old man remained on guard, watching for any further signs of danger.

I didn't feel the pain until I saw the jagged points of one of those throwing stars sticking out of my calf, with blood oozing around it.

Caine pulled something that looked suspiciously like gray-green moss out of his shoulder bag and told me matter-of-factly, "This...will hurt."

I hate it when he says that. It always turns out to be true. This time was no exception. With one smooth and entirely merciless motion, he pulled the shuriken out of my leg and pressed the handful of moss hard against the raw flesh. It was all I could do just to hold still and keep quiet.

I made the mistake of watching what he was doing. You'd think that sort of thing wouldn't bother me, since I work in the medical field, right? But I deal in nice clean images on a computer screen, which is far removed from the sort of messy trauma stuff you get in an emergency room. The worst thing I do to people is sometimes stick a tiny needle into their veins.

As I watched my blood continue to leak through the moss and around Caine's fingers, I saw the blackness gathering at the edges of my vision and heard the singing in my ears.

"Oh, shit," I said in disgust. "I think I'm going to --"

I passed out. Maybe that was just as well, under the circumstances.

 

The first thing I became aware of as consciousness trickled back into my brain was the throbbing pain in my leg, which seemed to be propped up on something soft. Okay, that was only to be expected. The next thing I noticed, even before I ventured to open my eyes, was that I was lying on a rather hard but padded surface. Good. That meant I wasn't on the sidewalk anymore. So where was I? A hospital would have been a nice comforting answer.

I opened my eyes cautiously, then closed them again. Nope, no hospital I've ever seen does business by candlelight. Too much of a fire hazard. Maybe I was still unconscious and dreaming.

When I opened my eyes again, it was all still there. Fortunately, no one had taken off my glasses, so at least I was able to see without first fumbling around and locating them. I was lying on a raised wooden platform at one end of a room that appeared rather like a cross between a Chinese thrift shop and something out of a museum. Most of the light came from candles stuck in various odd places, with the last dim remains of dusk filtering in through several large, multi-paned windows and a double glass door.

Overcrowded shelves and a couple of tables filled much of the open space. The Ancient stood at one of those tables, his back to me. There was no sign of Caine. Every so often, the old man made some kind of a clinking-crockery noise with whatever he was working on. Other than that, it was so quiet I fancied I could hear the candles burning.

I deliberately made more noise than necessary as I sat up. The Ancient turned around, smiling.

"Pardon the cliche, but where am I?" I asked.

"This is where Kwai Chang Caine lives," Lo Si replied. "We were not far away when we were attacked." A graceful wave of one hand took in the exotic surroundings. "Do you like it?"

"It's -- very nice," I said politely. "I guess." My eyes were still busy looking at all the odd stuff on the shelves and tables. Now, whatever did he do with those dried lizards over there? Then again, maybe it would be better not to ask.

The idea that Caine actually lived somewhere took a minute to sink in, since I had only known him as a drifter. Had he decided to settle down, now that he'd found his son? Given the multitude of jars, containers, and assorted bits of dried vegetation, I thought I could make a good guess at how he made his living these days. Traditional Chinese were pretty hot on all this herbal stuff, not to mention the so-called "New Age" folks. A man could do worse.

"How is your leg?" Lo Si inquired, folding his hands in front of his chest.

He had to mention that. I had almost forgotten the pain, so lost was I in my curiosity. I looked down at the leg. It appeared to be neatly bandaged, except for a few tufts of that moss poking out at the edges. I wiggled my toes and flexed my ankle cautiously. Everything seemed to work, so no major muscles or nerves had been severed. And it really didn't hurt all that much, now that I thought about it. Probably could use some stitches to keep the wound from opening up again, though.

"Pretty good," I replied at last.

"We will take you to the hospital, if you wish. But it is not necessary."

Somehow, I believed him.

"Nah. I'm okay. Wouldn't want to go out jogging just yet, though."

"No," he agreed solemnly. "It would be best to stay off your feet for a few days."

He turned back to the table and picked up one of those little Chinese teacups that don't have handles. Just as I feared, he brought it over to me, holding it delicately in both hands. "This will make you feel better and help prevent infection. But be careful. It is hot."

I regarded him warily, not taking the cup.

"Ah," the old man said softly. "You have had some of Kwai Chang Caine's potions before?"

"Yeah. The last cup of tea he gave me knocked me out."

"This will not produce that sort of effect," he promised. "Please."

As he extended his hands to once again give me the cup, the loose sleeves of his shirt pulled up a little and I could see he had the same dragon and tiger scars on his forearms that Caine did. I wasn't really surprised, somehow. After Caine had left me, I had looked up information on this Shaolin stuff, so at least I had some idea of what it meant.

Meanwhile, the old man was still trying to give me that cup of tea, even though he had doubtless noticed where my eyes were focused. Looking away, I took the damn cup.

He watched me in silence, an expectant smile on his lips.

This guy was even harder to resist than Caine himself. I gave in gracefully and sipped at the tea, hoping for the best. It actually tasted halfway good. And, as promised, it didn't knock me out.

"So where's Caine?" I asked, scrunching up the pillows behind me so I could lean back without lying flat.

"He went to see if any of those unpleasant young men were still in the alley, in order to find out why they attacked us."

"I wish him luck," I answered sourly, then noticed Caine had appeared in the doorway. "Well, speak of the devil."

"Devil?" Lo Si asked, obviously confused.

"It is a...figure of speech," Caine replied as he came into the room.

"Ah! Did you find anything?"

"No. They were..." he shrugged unhappily... "gone."

Then he walked over to me. "You are feeling better?"

It was really more of an observation than a question, but I answered anyway. "Yeah."

"Good." He took something out of his pouch, wiped it on a rag, and held it up. Light glinted off the sharp metal edges of the shuriken as he examined it from several angles. "This is the one that was in your leg." He handed it to Lo Si who also looked at it closely. "I see nothing unusual, Master. Do you?"

The old man shook his head, laying the star on the edge of the platform not far from me. The thing had six jagged points and a Chinese character engraved in the center. From my friends' reactions, I gathered it was a more or less generic throwing star.

"Whoever they were, Kwai Chang Caine," the Ancient said, "they meant to hit you."

"Yes," the intended target agreed.

I had already figured that out from the way the other stars had hit the wall where Caine had been. I had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Does this kind of thing happen often?" I asked.

He shrugged again. "Sometimes."

"Yeah. But twice in one day? First Peter, then you? And what about the injury that put Peter in the hospital in the first place? How did that happen?"

"Someone tried to...run him down with their car. But there...may be no connection. Peter is a detective." Caine looked distinctly unhappy as he continued, "He has many enemies."

"As do you," Lo Si was quick to add.

Caine nodded ruefully. I wondered exactly what he'd been doing over the last few years here in Chinatown to have made so many enemies. Despite the time we'd spent together a few years ago, there was a whole hell of a lot I didn't know about this man. Well, I'd just have to make it my business to find out, wouldn't I?

Meanwhile, the object of my curiosity opened the double doors and walked outside, fussing with a good-sized potted plant that stood near the wall of the balcony. From my angle, I could see the skyline of the city beyond him, the buildings dotted with lights which created a hazy brightness on the low-lying layer of clouds above. I couldn't really tell if Caine's balcony extended any further than the small section within my line of sight, but we were obviously several stories up in the air. If we were on top of the building, the entire roof might well be out there also.

Lo Si went to the doorway. "Perhaps we should continue with our interrupted supper. There is food in the kitchen?"

"Yes," the other man replied, still involved with the vegetation. "One moment and I will come help..."

Several sharp cracks interrupted his words. One of the small windowpanes shattered and a ceramic jar on the other side of the room exploded into fragments. Caine twisted and fell sideways, while the Ancient dove forward to catch him.

Even before my brain had a chance to realize someone was shooting at us, I had rolled off the platform and crouched down on the floor.

It got quiet. Out on the balcony, Caine and the Ancient were both sheltered by the brick wall. There were no other nearby buildings significantly higher than this one, so at that angle they should be safe from any further bullets. Caine lay flat on his back while Lo Si bent over his legs. The old man's back was to me and I couldn't see what he was doing.

While courage definitely isn't one of my strong points, curiosity is. I measured the distance separating me from my friends, then ran for the meager protection of the wall to find out what was going on. Another square of glass blew out behind me and I thought I could feel the bullet pass by my head, but I may have imagined that.

I scrunched down next to Lo Si, who had one hand clamped hard on the outside of Caine's right thigh, while his other hand pressed against the pressure point for the femoral artery. I wasn't real happy to see blood steadily soaking through Caine's trousers anyway.

I pulled off my sweater and folded it into a pad. "Here. Use this."

From my recent classes in anatomy, I knew that the truly large arteries mostly run down the inside of the thigh. However, there are a few that circle around, so the bullet might have hit one of those, judging by the way blood spurted rhythmically from the wound during the brief time the old man lifted his hand to take my sweater.

"I'm going for help. Where's your phone?"

"Down the street and to the right," Lo Si replied calmly. "Around the corner, there is a booth"

Oh, great. They didn't have a phone here.

"Okay. I'm on my way."

I had barely started to move when Caine's hand closed around my upper arm, holding me down. "No. It is too dangerous."

I tried to pull loose, but knew I wouldn't be able to. "Damn it, man, you want to just lie here and bleed to death?!"

"I will go," the Ancient said.

"Sure. You can get to the phone booth faster than I can, and dodge bullets along the way?"

"Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "Place your hand here and hold pressure on the wound until I return."

Still totally nonplused, I nevertheless moved to comply, but Caine still had hold of me. He said something to the old man in Chinese that sounded as if he were objecting to the situation. Lo Si replied shortly in a tone that really didn't invite dissent. The vise that was clamped around my arm let go and I put my hands where the Ancient instructed me to.

Then Lo Si was gone. He really could move faster than I could, especially considering my injured leg.

There was a moment there when I came awfully close to panic, pinned down by an assassin in the dubious shelter of a low wall, with my friend's blood oozing through my fingers. Caine looked awfully pale and his eyes were closed, but his face didn't have that slack look you usually see when someone's unconscious.

"Caine," I said inanely, "don't die."

"I...will not," he replied.

"Is that a promise?"

He looked at me and sort of smiled. Then he winced and closed his eyes again.

I wondered if maybe I should try to put a tourniquet around his leg, then discarded that idea. You only do that as a last resort, if someone is bleeding profusely and uncontrollably. That wasn't quite the case here. I might well do more harm than good.

As I knelt there waiting for help to arrive, I was distantly aware that blood was running down my own leg also. The cut must have opened up when I had moved. However, there wasn't enough pain to override the adrenaline in my veins, so I ignored it.

If I were the kind who believed in a personal god, I probably would have prayed, but I'm not, so I didn't. The best I could do was just crouch there hoping fervently that Caine would be able to keep his promise not to die. He meant enough to me that I would have given my own life to save him, but that's not a choice that was open just then.

I don't know how long it was before I heard the distant shriek of an ambulance siren, but it seemed like an eternity. Then we were surrounded by EMT's and police officers, who immediately took charge of the situation. I guess all that activity must have scared the sniper away, because no more shots were fired.

Lo Si drew me out of the way, taking me inside and sitting me down on the steps to the wooden platform. "He will be all right," he said gently. "Do not worry."

I nodded, but I worried anyway.

They loaded Caine onto a gurney. One of the medics was holding pressure on the bullet wound and there was already an IV running into his arm but he looked pretty awful when they wheeled him past me and out the door.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and glanced up to find one of the EMTs standing over me.

"You'd better come along with us, buddy. Your leg's bleeding, or hadn't you noticed?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," I said distractedly, my eyes following Caine. How were they going to get that gurney down all those stairs? Oh well, that wasn't my problem. I'm sure there was a way. Maybe there was an elevator or something.

The EMT hoisted me to my feet, but my leg buckled as soon as I put any weight on it. More to the point, how was I going to get myself down all those stairs, I wondered blearily.

The Ancient and the EMT each took an arm and they more or less carried me down to the ambulance, where I got wedged into a corner and hastily bandaged as we drove to the hospital. Most everyone's attention was on Caine, but that was as it should be, under the circumstances. My injury was relatively minor.

Caine kept his eyes closed and he didn't react to any of the jostling or poking and prodding that they did, but I still didn't think he was truly unconscious.

He opened his eyes for just a second as they unloaded the stretcher from the ambulance, but he didn't seem to be really focused on his surroundings. I didn't know if that was a good sign or not. I was pretty sure they'd take him directly to surgery, so I made no attempt to follow. Instead, I let the EMTs put me into a wheelchair and push me into Emergency, where I simultaneously answered as many questions as I could about Caine for the hospital admissions folks, told the police what had happened, and tried not to watch as a doctor stitched up my leg.

They gave me some antibiotics and painkillers and insisted I stay put for a while for observation. That was okay by me. I might as well lie here in a relatively comfortable bed while I waited to hear how Caine was doing as sit in a waiting room somewhere. They had put me in one of those little private rooms, so it was even relatively peaceful, for a hospital ER.

I guess I was pretty exhausted, because I had almost dozed off when Lo Si appeared. He had Caine's pouch slung over one shoulder and carried a shopping bag, which he set down on the chair.

I started to get up, but he pushed me gently back against the pillows.

"I have spoken to the doctors," he said, at the same time taking hold of my wrist the way you do when feeling for someone's pulse. "Kwai Chang Caine has just gone into surgery. It will be many hours before we will be able to see him, but they are confident that he will do well."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Lo Si nodded and released my wrist, apparently satisfied with my pulse. He inspected my bandaged leg, touching it so gently that it didn't even hurt. Then he went over to the counter along one wall of the room, poured some water into a plastic cup, and began rummaging through Caine's shoulder bag.

"Lo Si, there's something I've been wondering about," I said, hoping I might distract him from what he was doing before he could concoct something nasty for me to drink.

"Yes?" he said, without turning around.

"I know it sounds awful to think of such mundane considerations at a time like this, but how is Caine going to pay the hospital bills? I'll lay odds he doesn't have insurance."

Unfortunately, my question didn't deter the Ancient from his purpose. He handed me the cup, which was about half full of some greenish-brown gunk.

"Do not be concerned. Kwai Chang Caine has helped many people in the community. The bills will be paid."

Well, I suppose that's as good a form of medical insurance as any other. I drank the gunk without gagging.

"So what now?" I asked, tossing the empty cup at the waste basket. I missed. I never have been any good at that kind of thing.

"We must go and tell Peter what has happened to his father," Lo Si replied, picking up the cup and placing it where it should have gone. "But first..." he handed me the shopping bag... "this is for you."

I opened the bag and found an outfit rather like what the old man himself was wearing, but this one was in gray instead of black.

"Where'd this come from?" I asked, fingering the soft material. It felt like silk.

"It is mine. I asked my niece to bring it. We are close to the same size, so it should fit you."

My own clothes were torn and splattered with blood, but I really hadn't thought about that until now.

"Hey, thanks. But you didn't have to do this. I could have borrowed some scrubs from the hospital."

"I did not have to, but I wished to," he answered with another one of his smiles.

I held up the shirt in front of me. Yeah, we were almost the same size. The pants would maybe be a little short, but not by much. Okay, I'm going to look a little conspicuous dressed in Chinese pajamas, but I guess I'll get over it. I've worn stranger things in my life.

 

The Ancient seemed to know his way around the corridors of County General, so I just followed him up to Peter's room. Now that I was on my feet, my leg had started to ache. Maybe I should have stayed in bed? Nah. That had been getting pretty boring.

Peter was sitting up in bed, his right arm in a sling. The TV set showed the 11 PM news, but the volume had been turned down almost to inaudibility. The curtains were drawn around the other bed in the room, whose occupant was presumably asleep, or trying to be. (Hospitals are terrible places for getting any rest. Too much noise and commotion. And they really do wake you up at god-awful hours to take your temperature or give you pills and stuff.)

"Hi, Lo Si," Peter said softly, putting a finger to his lips and jerking a thumb at the other bed. "What brings you here at this hour?" Then he caught sight of me, looking me over pretty carefully before asking, "Don't I know you?"

Pretty sharp kid, if he remembered me from earlier, considering how groggy he'd been. He certainly wasn't groggy now, although his face looked kind of pinched.

"Yeah," I answered affably. "I work down in MRI. My name's Jeremy."

"You're the one my father told me about then. That old friend of his. Guess I need to thank you for tricking that guy who tried to shoot me, huh?"

"Don't worry about it," I replied. "Part of the job."

But he had sounded more uncomfortable than grateful, and his eyes continued to look me over. Now, I'm not exactly a flaming queen, but most people seem to be able to tell I'm gay. Yes, I wear an earring in my left ear, but so do lots of straight folks these days. And, this time at least, it couldn't be my choice of clothing, although he may well have thought it was pretty strange. I don't know how people can tell, but they usually can. On top of that, this boy was both a cop and Caine's son. He had to be pretty damn perceptive, and I could tell from the look on his face that he didn't especially like what he was perceiving.

He turned his attention to the Ancient. "What's going on? Where's Pop?"

"That is what I have come to talk to you about," Lo Si replied, launching into a description of the evening's events.

My leg was throbbing pretty badly by now, so I eased myself down into the only chair in the room. Propping my foot up on the side rail of the bed, I tried my best to fade into the woodwork as Lo Si filled Peter in on what had happened. I wasn't real pleased that Caine's son hadn't exactly taken to me, but perhaps he'd get over it.

Caine's son. I studied the boy through half-closed eyes, wondering what life had been like for him, as I listened to Lo Si talk.

It couldn't have been easy. There would simply be too much to live up to. Nevertheless, I'd have given a hell of a lot to have had a father like Kwai Chang Caine, even if I had thought I'd lost him at a fairly early age. I'm afraid my dear old dad was a major asshole. I try to be fair and ask myself how many average American men, much less a macho truck driver like my father, could have coped well with a sissy son in the 1950s, but it doesn't help. My dad blew it any way you looked at it. He went to his grave despising me for my sexual orientation.

Now that I thought about it, I wonder what would have happened if Peter had been gay? Caine had never had much of a problem with me, but what if it were his own son?

Then it occurred to me to wonder what Caine's father had been like. He'd once told me a little about the grandfather whose name he bore, but that was really all I knew of the family.

What was all this "father" stuff that was running through my head? Jeez, I hadn't even thought about my own dad in years. Enough already!

I turned my attention back to Lo Si and the boy, still watching them from under my eyelashes. Seeing them both together made them seem familiar somehow, but I knew I'd never run into either of them until today. I frowned, raking over my memories. A very old man, and a handsome young man. And I'd never met them before. Hmm.

Then I had it. I'd never met them, but I had seen them. Just once, in a strange flash of vision I'd had when I'd been about to part with Caine after our cross-country trek. I had seen some kind of elaborate ceremony, with a lot of fancy-dressed Chinese folks, plus Caine in an orange and black outfit. There had been faces -- the old man, a young Chinese, and a young American. At the time, all I had told Caine was that I'd had a feeling he'd find what he was searching for. Looks as if he had, but I still wondered about the other young man, the Chinese one. I'd have to ask him about that someday.

By now, Lo Si had brought Peter up to date. When he said Caine was in surgery, I thought the boy was about to hop out of bed and demand to see his father right away, but he got his immediate impulse under control and settled for simply whacking his fist against the mattress.

"Oh jeez, that's just great! What do we do now?" he demanded.

"We wait," Lo Si replied. "And you --" he reached up and turned off the TV-- "sleep."

"I don't want to sleep. I'm not tired."

Lo Si flicked the light switch off also. "Then lie here in the darkness, young Caine, and meditate," he said with a smile.

I probably would have laughed, if my leg hadn't been hurting so much by now. As it was, I felt kind of woozy as I followed the old man out of the room and down the hall.

"Peter does not seem to like you," Lo Si remarked gently.

Pretty perceptive of him to notice. I wondered if he'd also figured out why. Oh well, might as well jump in with both feet as tiptoe around.

"I'm gay."

"Yes, I know." He flashed me another one of his smiles. "I am very, very old, but I am not yet blind."

I couldn't help but laugh then, which made me feel a hell of a lot better about Peter's reaction. At least the old man didn't mind.

I shouldn't have laughed. That only made the dizziness worse and prompted a wave of nausea. Maybe the pain pills they'd given me, or just being on my feet too much. I grabbed the handrail that ran the length of the corridor and leaned forward, willing the blood back into my brain.

The next thing I knew, Lo Si had appeared with a wheelchair.

"I don't need that," I protested weakly. "I can walk."

Sure, Jeremy. If you want to fall flat on your face. But straight men aren't the only folks who succumb to the foolish need to act strong all the time.

"Sit," the Ancient ordered concisely.

As the corridor spun around me, I reflected that this was someone even Kwai Chang Caine obeyed. Maybe I'd be well-advised to do as he said.

The old man pushed me down the hall, into an elevator, and then down another hall. Somewhere along the way, he'd picked up a pretty young nursing assistant as an escort.

"Where we going?" I finally got my mouth working well enough to ask.

"There are some rooms which may be used by people who are --" he hesitated over the unfamiliar expression -- "on call? The nurse says you may use one of them to lie down and sleep."

"I don't want to sleep."

"You are as bad as Peter," he concluded, as we reached a room at the very end of the corridor.

"I've got to wait and see how Caine's doing in the OR," I protested.

"You do not have to be awake in order to wait." He patted the bed with one hand and literally hoisted me out of the wheelchair with the other.

I gave in as gracefully as I could, under the circumstances. The young nursing assistant fussed over Lo Si as much as she did over me. He seems to have a way with women.

Lying down was a definite improvement. I fell asleep almost as soon as they left the room. (Well, after I had spent the obligatory stretch of time worrying about Caine, anyway.)

 

By the time I woke up, it was almost dawn. It didn't take long for me to make myself reasonably presentable and track down Caine's whereabouts. Much to my relief, he was on the general medical/surgical floor, rather than in Intensive Care. I headed for his room, navigating the trackless maze of hospital corridors with practiced ease. (In other words, I only made one wrong turn. This is a big hospital and I'm fairly new here.)

I was coming up on the room number I wanted when I heard voices from inside. Good. Caine had visitors. That was a hopeful sign also. Then I caught the sound of my name and froze just outside the door. I realized it was Peter's voice I had heard, and he didn't sound altogether pleased.

"Pop, that friend of yours -- Jerry?"

"Jeremy," Caine corrected him. He had a tendency to pronounce my name rather slowly, so that each syllable was quite distinct.

"Yeah, him. How well do you know him anyway? Any chance he could be involved in all these attacks?"

Peter suspected me?! Good grief! But I guess that's what happens when you're a cop.

"I...trust Jeremy, my son. Besides, did he not help save your life the other day?"

Judging by his voice, Caine seemed pretty alert. He must have been out of surgery for quite some time. Either that, or he recovered real quickly.

"That's true," Peter allowed grudgingly. "But he's kind of strange. I think he's gay."

"Yes," was the quiet reply.

"That doesn't bother you?" Peter sounded rather incredulous at this revelation.

"Should it...bother me?"

"You said you trusted him. How long have you known him?" Peter asked.

"We traveled together in his car, shortly before I found you."

"Oh?"

"Peter, I know what you are thinking. Jeremy is a friend. I helped him see the value of his life, and he helped me to...go on."

"That's all?"

I thought I detected a certain amount of amusement in Caine's voice when he answered, "What more did you expect?"

"Pop, when he was in my room earlier, I saw the look on his face whenever your name was mentioned."

Oops! Was I really that transparent? Or was this young man just extremely observant? I'd clearly have to watch myself around him.

"In case you hadn't noticed," Peter continued, "I think he --"

"Enough," Caine said sternly. "In the time we spent together, Jeremy has never even made a...pass at me."

Peter laughed uneasily. "Okay, Pop. Just watch your ass when he's around, huh?"

"I do not think that will be necessary."

I figured this had gone on about long enough, so I rapped loudly on the door and called out, "Hey, anybody home?"

"Uh -- yeah," Peter said, turning to face me as I walked in.

Caine was in the bed near the window, while Peter perched on the edge of the windowsill. The blinds behind him were down and closed. They rustled noisily as he shifted position.

I wasn't real sure what to say next. Caine looked pretty perky for someone who'd just had a bullet dug out of his leg, although he was attached to the obligatory IV. The electronic IVAC unit on the pole monitored the flow of various antibiotics in their little inverted plastic bags, but he wasn't on oxygen or attached to any monitors that might indicate he was having serious problems. That was yet another good sign.

There seemed to be no need for heavy-duty drama or emotional scenes, so I decided to go with a lighter touch, especially considering Peter's presence. I went over and stood next to the bed on the opposite side from the boy. Caine looked at me in the Ancient's clothes and sort of winced.

"Hey," I said in response to his less-than-appreciative reaction, "I thought they were pretty neat."

"The color...does not suit you."

Humph! A lot he knows. I've always thought I looked good in gray.

"Well, it suits me better than the pink flowers on that hospital gown suit you," I pointed out. "How do you like being a patient in our fine establishment?"

"I can think of...many...things I would rather do," Caine replied.

I asked the usual hospital question. "How's the food?"

He shrugged. (Jeez, he even does it lying down!)

"I do not know. I have not...had any of it yet."

Peter hadn't said anything so far. His arm was still in a sling, but there was no wheelchair, so he had apparently gotten to his father's room under his own power. He wore a sweat suit, not a hospital gown. All this pointed to the likelihood that he'd be getting released pretty soon.

The silence was about to get uncomfortable when Lo Si came in the door, carrying a styrofoam coffee cup with a plastic cover.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, catching sight of me. "I was about to go and wake you. But you should not be on your feet." He waved at the empty bed. "Sit down and put your leg up."

I looked at Caine, rolled my eyes, and did as I was told. It did ease the growing ache in my leg. (Yeah, it's kind of nice to be fussed over, if you're not in too much pain. But I've been around hospitals enough to realize that you pretty quickly reach a point where all the comfort in the world isn't worth the hurt.)

Meanwhile, Lo Si handed the styrofoam cup to Caine, who took the lid off and dutifully sipped at whatever it was the old man had given him.

"I am sorry about the cup," the Ancient apologized. "It was all they had at the nurse's station. But there is a microwave there," he concluded, beaming.

Peter waved at the IV pole with its cluster of bags and said teasingly, "He doesn't need that stuff, Lo Si. He's probably got enough antibiotics in his veins by now to kill any germ within a ten mile radius."

The Ancient looked at him with mild reproach. "This will not kill germs. It will strengthen his body to heal itself."

Peter looked dubiously at the cup in his father's hand, then remarked in Caine's direction, "Yeah, well, better you than me, Pop."

Maybe Peter and I did agree on some things, after all.

The nursing assistant picked that moment to arrive with a breakfast tray, bustling efficiently around the room until she had the tray situated on a bed table and Caine propped up into a reasonably comfortable position for eating. This NA was middle-aged and African-American, but she too seemed to know and like the Ancient, judging by the cheery greeting she gave him. (Damn! If I had half as much of a way with the men as that skinny old guy had with women, I'd be sitting pretty. How does he do it, anyhow?)

As the NA took the cover off the food tray with a flourish that would have done justice to a master chef, the shit hit the fan. The window shattered and collapsed in a rain of broken glass as a steady stream of bullets zigzagged across the far wall in an erratic pattern. Before I even realized what was going on, Peter had hit the floor by the window, pulling the woman down beneath him. I ended up between the two beds, in more or less of a tangle with Caine, Lo Si, the IV pole, and the food tray, as the last of the bullets tore through the mattress just above our heads. Then it got quiet, except for the urgent electronic beep of the IVAC monitor, which didn't take kindly to being in its present position.

"Stay down!" Peter ordered. "Is anybody hurt?"

"We are...undamaged," Caine replied calmly.

I was pretty much on the bottom and didn't recall making any decision to hit the floor, so Caine and/or Lo Si must have dragged me down as they took cover. We were still working on getting ourselves untangled when the NA, commendably concerned for her patient's safety, crawled around the wrecked bed to check on Caine.

Peter, meanwhile, peeked around the edge of the window frame, where a few surviving slats from the blinds still swung back and forth with a half-hearted clatter. 

No more artillery fire seemed to be incoming, at least for the time being. As the NA checked the bandages on Caine's leg, I wiped scrambled eggs and coffee off my eyeglasses. The IVAC continued to complain.

 

Later on, in a different room with police guards outside the door, we were still trying to sort out what was going on.

"This just doesn't make a whole lot of sense, Pop," Peter summarized. "First, someone tries to run me down, then someone else tries to shoot me. Next, you're attacked in an alley, then you get shot on your balcony. And now someone shoots up the hospital room. We've got the one who came after me in MRI in custody, but we've yet to nail any of the others. The ones in the alley weren't exactly great martial artists, according to your description, and the next person wasn't much of a marksman. I mean, not to brag or anything, but if I'd been doing the shooting, you'd have been dead. It wasn't that hard a shot. Besides, the bullets were 30 caliber, and the shell casings on the rooftop across the street were Army surplus ammo, which means the sniper probably used an old style military rifle. A real pro would have had a far more sophisticated weapon and would have been much more careful about the shell casings. And now this latest attempt, using an automatic weapon and firing into a room with the blinds drawn. A pro would never do that, either."

Caine shrugged. "You and I have both made...many enemies. Not all of them are professional killers."

"Yeah, but this is getting a little ridiculous! Lots of inept and apparently unconnected people are trying to kill one or both of us. Something must be behind all this."

"Did you get any information from the one in custody?" Lo Si inquired. He'd been taking stuff out of Caine's pouch and laying it on the bedside stand. Now he seemed to be pretty intent on sorting through what he had available to work with.

"Not much. The Chief tells me he's a small-time hood, but none of his prior arrests have involved serious crimes, much less attempted homicide. He said something about money before he decided to clam up and demand a lawyer. I hardly think anyone would hire someone like that to take me out. And the rest of it just seems so disconnected, not to mention downright inept."

"Maybe there's a price on your heads?" I interjected uncertainly. After all, what did I really know about this kind of thing?

Peter ignored what I said, but Caine turned to me with a strange expression on his face. "My...grandfather...had a price on his head. I do not."

"No, Pop. He doesn't mean the law. He means someone put out a contract on you. And me too."

"A...contract?" Lo Si asked.

Caine had gotten the idea by now. "Someone has offered money to anyone who kills us," he explained slowly. I could tell the idea disturbed him. I could even guess why, considering what I already knew about the grandfather he had just mentioned.

"That's possible," Peter conceded. "But who would do such a thing?"

"Someone with a lot of money, and a lot of reasons to dislike both of you," I suggested.

Peter gave me a quick glance, as if surprised that a reasonably possible suggestion had actually come from my direction, then he turned his attention to his father.

"Well, I'm not saying this is true, but if it is, it's going to get worse. The only thing that's come after us so far is the riff-raff. If there's enough money involved and word gets out to the real professionals, we could be in deep trouble."

"Yes," Caine agreed.

Peter made up his mind. "I'm going back to my room and make some phone calls. See what I can find out." He went over to Caine's bed. "Try to get some rest, Pop," he said gently. "I'll take care of this." Then he leaned over and kissed the other man's forehead.

I stared in shocked surprise as the boy left the room. Never could I have done that to my father. Never. He would have decked me.

Lo Si, meanwhile, was still sorting through his store of medicinal herbs, no doubt planning to make up more noxious potions for Caine to drink. Things had gotten somewhat damaged in the commotion we'd had earlier. Some of the little bags and vials were leaking or broken. He shook his head, clearly displeased.

"I will need to go and get more herbs," he said. "The dang gui has been totally...trashed?" He glanced at me, as if to ask whether he had used the expression appropriately. When I nodded, he went on to test a couple of other items that had apparently also bitten the dust.

I considered all the people who had been taking pot shots at Caine recently. If anything else happened, Lo Si would be a lot more useful to have close at hand than I would be. So I offered, "I can go pick them up."

"You would not know what to get," Lo Si pointed out.

Caine considered this for a moment. "I can tell you exactly where to look and what to bring. But is your leg well enough for you to drive?"

No, not really. It still hurt if I stood up for too long. But I wasn't going to tell him that. He had to hurt a lot worse than I did, especially after diving out of the way of that last round of bullets. And I'd seen him refuse the nurse's offer of more pain meds.

"No problem," I said easily. "Just give me the address and I can take a taxi.

"It...could be dangerous."

"Nah. No one's gunning for me." I smiled, trying for the same effect that Lo Si gets when he does it. "No one's going to pay to have me taken out. I haven't made that kind of enemy."

Caine nodded, but he didn't look altogether pleased. Nevertheless, he proceeded to give me the info I would need, while I scribbled everything down on a piece of paper.

When I was all set, I wondered briefly if I could get away with Peter's style of parting with his father.

Nah. Better not push my luck.

"If I'm not back in two hours," I quipped, "send out a search party. Okay?"

 

I reached Caine's apartment with no further problems. In fact, the cab driver seemed to know right where it was as soon as I mentioned the address. Some of that yellow tape the police use around crime scenes was still in place, but I ignored it. The doors were unlocked, as Caine had said they would be.

Being the incorrigibly curious person that I am, I decided to check out the place while I was there. (Well, the more or less public parts, anyway. I don't go poking around people's bedrooms or bathrooms uninvited.)

There was one room that was basically empty, except for an uneven circle of candles of various shapes and sizes on the floor, and a smallish altar against one wall. Picking my way between the candles, I went over to take a closer look at the altar.

As was only to be expected, a statue of the Buddha formed the main focus, with vases of flowers and yet more candles on either side. There were also a few plates of fruit and some odd containers, which could have been used to hold sticks of burning incense. All of this sat on a narrow dark-wood table, with a deep red cloth cover.

Nothing really unusual, as Chinese family altars go. I'd seen much the same sort of thing in the homes of some of Bobbie's relatives. I knew you could pretty much put anything you wanted in the way of gods in the place of honor. There were plenty of Chinese deities to choose from if you didn't particularly care for the Buddha. In fact, there were even several types of Buddhas, if you want to get real fussy about it. Sometimes I'd also seen photographs of deceased family members on the altars. There was no set formula as to what had to be included.

Always seemed rather a good idea to me: customize your gods, individual expression, and all that. Maybe I should do something like this myself.

From there, I located the room with the platform where I'd been the previous night, which seemed to be sort of a workroom. As I've already mentioned, there were shelves all around the walls full of bottles, tins, books, jars, boxes, sprays of dried stuff, and other miscellaneous items. Most of the containers weren't labeled, and if they were, it was in Chinese.

Being in no particular hurry, I strolled around and examined everything, in great detail. (And there were plenty of details to examine, believe me!) I only thought that I liked to live in the midst of clutter and personal mementos. Caine had me beat a thousandfold. Still, this was obviously a work space, so at least he had an excuse.

Glass crunched under one foot as I skirted a table in the center of the room. Other than several panes of broken glass in the windows and the remains of a ceramic jar near the other wall, there hadn't been much damage done by all the shooting. I bent down and picked the largest chunks of glass up off the brick floor, then did the same for the shattered jar. There was no dustpan or brush in sight, but I cleaned up the mess as best I could with a couple of rags.

That done, I figured it was about time to get serious about my reason for coming here in the first place. I got out my scribbled instructions and began tracking down items for Lo Si.

Let's see. "Three small shelves on the wall to the right of the door. Second one on top. Dark glass bottle in middle." Okay. Got it. (Uck! There was one of those flayed lizards on the other shelf. I still wanted to know what he used them for.)

Next, I needed a few dried mushrooms from a certain dish on the table. That was easy enough. Then some kind of herb that was hanging up to dry at the top of the window above the platform. A little hard for me to reach, but I managed. (They'd even drawn a sketch of the leaves, so I'd be sure to get the right bunch, since there were several to choose from.)

Last, I had to locate a small ceramic container on the side table between the windows, exact pattern of stripes drawn in a neat little diagram on my list. (Jeez, Caine had to have this entire room memorized in great detail. No easy task, considering.)

Inside the container, there was a more or less modern-looking package of capsules. (Wow! Chinese medicine enters the Twentieth Century!) The packet was marked "Yunnan Pai Yao", whatever that was.

I scrounged around until I found a discarded plastic bag in which to carry this stuff back to the hospital. Recalling the Ancient's dislike for the styrofoam coffee cup, I added a teacup that looked as if it might be microwave-safe, then set my carefully-assembled hoard on the edge of the wooden platform, almost on top of the shuriken, which still lay where Caine had left it.

That reminded me of the pain in my leg, which I had been dutifully trying to ignore. Opening the double glass doors, I went out onto the balcony, sat on top of the wall, and propped my leg up on the concrete capping in order to relieve the pressure for a while. I did my best not to notice the bloodstain still left on the floor where Caine had fallen.

It was early afternoon, bright and sunny and still fairly warm for this time of year. I sat basking in the sunshine, squinting out at the surrounding buildings and the skyline of the rest of the city.

You're absolutely not going to believe this, but all of a sudden there was a tiger standing there on the balcony with me. I blinked in astonishment and it was gone.

But where the tiger had been, there now stood a man. He was about my height, but that's where any similarity ended. He was oriental, with a rather broad and flat face. Very snappy dresser: obviously wealthy.

Cold black eyes raked over me as he asked disdainfully, "Who are you?"

"Jeremy Langsten. And who might you be?" I asked in return, almost as rudely.

If it's possible to look down a flat Chinese nose at someone, he did it to me. "I am Bon Bon Hai," he announced, as if stating a fact of enormous importance.

I took an instant dislike to this guy, and my mouth took over from there. "Is that a name, or some kind of candy?"

He took a step toward me, eyes flaring fire. I almost thought he meant to attack me with his bare hands. Then he got his anger under control, merely stating coldly, "I am looking for Kwai Chang Caine."

"Well, you're looking in the wrong place. He's in the hospital."

Bon Bon Hai smiled. He strolled over to the low wall of the balcony and sniffed carefully at the delicate purple blossom of a potted plant, appearing mighty pleased with himself about something.

"The troublesome priest has met with an accident, then?" he suggested.

"Yeah, you might say that. Somebody shot him."

"How unfortunate." But he was smiling too happily for me to take his words at face value. Whatever this man was, he was no friend of Caine's, that was for sure. Hmm. Very rich and very powerful, and also not very nice.

"You know something about this, don't you, pal?" I asked.

The cold eyes focused in on me again. I felt as if he saw more than I wished him to see. Not at all a comfortable feeling. I just might be skating on thin ice here. But since when has that ever stopped me from opening my big mouth?

"What business is it of yours?" he demanded.

"Caine's my friend."

His lip curled as he looked me up and down. "I did not think even Kwai Chang Caine would befriend filth such as you."

I didn't really have to ask him what he meant. Holding onto my temper with an effort, I made a giant assumption. "You're the one who put a price on their heads, aren't you? You want Caine and his son dead, but you won't dirty your own hands to do it."

"How did you know?"

I did a shrug that would have done credit to Caine himself. "I'm a good guesser?"

"Better for you if you do not guess about things that are not your concern."

"I told you, Caine's my friend. That makes it my concern."

"Then it would be better if you were to choose other friends," he said smoothly, "for these will soon be dead."

"Why are you out to get them?" I asked. "What have they done to you?"

"They have interfered with my plans, torn down the empire I strove to build. They have gotten in my way too many times. And the priest..." he hesitated as if remembering something, then looked even more vicious than before... "has destroyed something of great value to me, someone whose power I had hoped to wield."

"Too bad," I replied with intentional sarcasm. I still sat on the wall of the balcony.

Closing the distance between us, Bon Bon Hai grabbed a handful of my gray silk shirt and literally lifted me onto my feet.

"It will be too bad for you, if you get in my way also, ignorant fool," he hissed.

The unholy gleam in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. I was suddenly very aware of just how much empty air was between Caine's balcony and the street below. I might have tried to fight him off, but he projected the kind of coiled power that reminded me all too much of Caine, except this was vicious and malevolent. I'd have bet this guy could take me apart with his bare hands, if he felt like it. Perhaps I'd managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time again?

"What the hell are you, anyway?" I demanded with false bravado.

Bon Bon Hai smiled. "I am evil, and darkness," was the smug response.

"You wouldn't kid me, would you?" I said with as much sarcasm as I dared, under the circumstances. I just can't help taunting people that I don't like, a trait which has gotten me into deep shit every now and then.

"No, I would not," he replied, in perfect seriousness. He made some sort of weird gesture with his other hand and suddenly I was watching this thing in black armor that kind of reminded me of a Japanese version of Darth Vader, but it held an ordinary sword rather than a light saber.

Bon Bon Hai knelt before the creature as it touched each of his shoulders and then his head with its sword.

"May the dark powers course within your veins for all time," I heard it tell him. "Go forth into the world of man and prepare for my imminent arrival."

Bon Bon Hai smiled maniacally, as if his fondest wish had just been granted. Then the scene evaporated in mist and smoke.

This guy was an emissary of some kind of mystical dark power? Whew! That didn't bode well for my safety, much less that of my friends. I had no chance against him, certainly not on the physical level, and apparently not on the spiritual level either. What on earth could I hope to do against something like this? How could I keep him off Caine and Peter?

On the other hand, hadn't I talked a gun out of a man's hand once, in Wyoming? Maybe I could do it again with this dude, metaphorically speaking, of course.

"All right, you've made your point," I admitted shakily. "I believe you. You're evil and darkness. You want Caine and his son dead, and you've got enough money to pay some other poor suckers to do your dirty work. Can't say I approve of your methods, pal."

"I do not need your approval." So saying, he flung me the width of the balcony. I fetched up hard against the brick wall of the building, knocking over a couple of plants in the process. (Good start, Jeremy. Keep it up and you'll have him eating right out of your hand. Not.)

"Tell the priest his days are numbered," Bon Bon Hai said, turning away and taking a few steps towards the archway at the side of the balcony.

If he walked out of here, nothing would be settled and Caine and Peter would still be in danger. I pulled myself up to my feet and said to his back, "Tell him yourself. I'm not your fucking messenger boy, you arrogant son of a bitch."

As I've already admitted, I've got a smart mouth. I could probably make Mother Teresa lose her temper, if I wanted to. But this time I was doing it intentionally, hoping to keep my charming visitor from leaving.

It worked. Bon Bon Hai froze where he was.

I went on. "Tell me, do you always hire other people to fight your battles, or is it just Caine that you can't handle?"

When he spun around to face me, he held a knife in his right hand. It was long, narrow, and vicious-looking, with intricate figures inscribed along the blade.

Maybe it was time to ease off a little, before he skewered me? I backed away, through the double doors and into the room. Unfortunately, he followed me, with that mirthless and chilling smile still on his face.

"Wait a minute now. Let's...uh...think this over," I stammered, continuing to back across the room until I hit one of the tables.

Bon Bon Hai swung at me with the knife. I think he was only toying with me at this point, because he would've missed by a mile. Nevertheless, my hand came up instinctively to try to block.

He grabbed my wrist with his free hand, dug his thumb into the back of my hand, and twisted around and down.

In case you've never been grabbed like that, it hurts. You automatically turn and drop down, trying to take the pressure off your wrist. By the time I was crouched on the floor and had no further to go, it really hurt. I knew if he pressed just a little harder, something was going to give.

Bon Bon Hai leaned over me and held his knife to my throat. I could feel the pulse in my left carotid artery just beneath the sharp point.

Okay, this is it. I'm history. There's no way I'm getting out of this. I closed my eyes and hoped it would at least be over quickly.

But instead of the pain and darkness I was expecting, a strange scene flashed through my mind.

The Japanese Darth Vader was back, but he was fighting with Caine this time. And Caine wasn't doing so good.

The whole scene took place against a stark white background, with Caine dressed in white. I saw him get knocked down.

As the creature in black armor raised its sword to strike a killing blow, Caine managed to get to his knees and catch the sword, one hand on either side of the blade, as it came down at him. The damn thing was practically touching his forehead and his eyes were focused on the sharp edge that was about to destroy him. All his magnificent fighting prowess had already proven useless and it seemed pretty clear to me that he was dead meat.

Faced with this impossibly hopeless situation, Caine said the last thing in the world that I expected to hear.

"Goodness shall triumph. Light banishes darkness. Truth can be the only victor."

He was claiming victory, even in defeat. The scene stopped there. Everything blurred out of focus, so I couldn't tell what happened next. Whatever it was, Caine had to have won out. After all, he's alive, isn't he?

But what did all that have to do with me, and where in the hell had it come from?

I opened my eyes. I guess Bon Bon Hai was enjoying the terror on my face, because he hadn't killed me yet. On the other hand, he was still smiling. That wasn't good.

Something about the strange scene I had just watched scratched at the edge of my incipient panic. What was it Caine had said? Something about truth being the only victor? What was Bon Bon Hai's truth? What lay beneath his hatred of Caine?

I looked up into those cold black eyes and suddenly I thought I knew what drove him.

"You're afraid," I said, as calmly as I could considering the knife at my throat. "You're afraid of Kwai Chang Caine and his son."

"I fear nothing," he replied harshly. "It is you who should be afraid."

Despite his denial, I was sure I'd hit a nerve. I may not know a lot about courage, but I'm an expert on fear. And I know when I see it in a man's eyes.

"I am afraid," I admitted. "But that doesn't help you any, does it now?"

He looked away. "I fear nothing," he repeated, perhaps hoping to convince himself. "I am evil, and darkness."

I decided to try a line on him that Caine had once used on me. "Fear is the only darkness," I said firmly. "The truth is that you're terrified of Caine and Peter. If you weren't, you'd have the guts to face them yourself."

The black eyes blazed fire and the point of the knife cut into my throat.

"You can kill me, if that's what you want," I persisted. "But you can't kill your own fear. The only way you can even begin to do that is by facing what you fear. And if one of your bounty hunters gets lucky enough to take down Caine, or Peter, you'll never have the opportunity to do that."

He didn't like that, but it wasn't going to be enough to save me. I could tell from his face, and the way he twisted my trapped wrist just a little further. His next words only confirmed my suspicion.

"You are right," he admitted slowly. "But that will do you little good now. I will deal with the priest and his son myself, after I have dealt with you."

Then I heard Caine's voice in my mind, barely more than a strained whisper. "Permission, Jeremy?"

I didn't have any idea of what he was asking, but where Caine is concerned, it's pretty much like that country and western song I've been hearing lately: "Anything you want, you got it."

Besides, things could hardly get any worse, could they?

"Hell, yes!" I thought back.

My left hand came down, around, and up to strike the inside of the wrist that held the knife to my throat. Simultaneously, I twisted to the left and down, rolling sideways, the momentum of my body enough to wrench my other wrist out of Bon Bon Hai's grasp. As I turned, I swept his feet out from under him with my left foot. He fell backwards, the knife flying from his hand and skittering across the brick floor.

I came to my feet next to the platform, still totally astonished at what I was doing, as Bon Bon Hai scrambled after his knife.

He said something nasty in Chinese as he picked it up by the blade, then he drew back his arm to throw.

I felt the polished metal of the shuriken under the fingers of my hand. Then I picked it up and tossed it, smoothly and effortlessly. It struck the knife in mid-air. Both implements fell with a sharp clatter.

No way in hell could I have done that. I can't even toss a plastic cup into a wastebasket, remember?

Bon Bon Hai stared at me. Then he retrieved his knife and looked at it unbelievingly.

"How --? Ah! The priest. This is his doing."

He had to be right. There was no other reasonable explanation for my sudden ability to do this stuff. But whatever force had been directing my body, it was draining away now. My knees were shaking. I sincerely hoped Bon Bon Hai wouldn't notice that just yet.

Apparently, he hadn't. He sidled toward the glass doors, keeping a wary distance between us.

"Tell the priest and his son that I will be coming for them myself, sometime when they least expect it."

He gave me a look of pure hatred. Then the tiger was there again. And then it wasn't, and the room was empty except for me.

Only at that point did it occur to me that I may have done Caine and Peter no favor by convincing Bon Bon Hai to take them on himself. He might well be more dangerous than any paid assassin.

I walked over to where the shuriken lay on the floor. For a long moment, I stood staring at it. So beautiful. And so deadly. Then I picked it up and placed it in the plastic bag with the stuff I had collected to bring to the Ancient, planning to keep it. A sharp twinge of pain ran up my leg as I started for the door. I figured I had earned this little memento, even if it hadn't been meant for me in the first place.

 

"I thought you didn't read minds," I said to Caine later on, back at the hospital. For some reason, he looked rather worse than he had before. He was almost as pale as the pillows that seemed to be the only thing keeping him propped in an upright position.

"I do not. I get...images..." He waved one hand weakly in frustration, as if he couldn't find the right word for what he wanted. "Pictures...of things happening. I can sometimes...send images of my own, if there is need."

"Yeah, fine. But you did more than just show me pictures." I picked up the shuriken. "I'm no good at tossing these things around. How'd you do that?"

Caine looked at Lo Si. "I had...help. But even so...such a thing is not done easily...or without cost."

Like I said, he did look kind of ragged.

"And it cannot be done," he went on, "without the other person's full cooperation."

"Hey, no problem," I replied. "But there's one thing I'm kind of worried about. What happens when Bon Bon Hai decides to carry out his threat? He'll be after you and Peter himself, one of these days."

Lo Si looked up from the concoction he was making. "When he comes, we shall be ready," he said calmly. "Do not be concerned."

That was the moment the nursing assistant chose to appear at the door with a supper tray for Caine, cutting off any further discussion. Since Caine hadn't been in any shape last night to check off his choices on the following day's menu, the dietitian had made her own choices. The result was a tray overloaded with food, much of which Caine probably wouldn't want to eat.

However, it smelled pretty good to me, especially the hamburger steak with gravy.

Caine inspected the unpromising meal with a jaundiced eye. The vegetables were thoroughly overcooked, there was coffee instead of tea, and there were certainly no chopsticks. He sighed, then waved one hand at the plate.

"Jeremy...would you care to join me?" he asked.

"Well, considering what's happened at our last two meals, I'm not sure that would be a good idea," I replied, only half in jest. So far, I'd gotten a shuriken in my leg on the way to dinner, plus most of Caine's breakfast in my hair as we dodged bullets in his hospital room.

"I am sure this will be all right," Lo Si said, picking up a roll and taking a bite. "See?"

When nothing untoward happened, I wasted no time polishing off the hamburger, while Caine and Lo Si picked at the other stuff. (I also got the slice of chocolate cake. It wasn't bad, for hospital food.)

"Well," I quipped, when we had totally emptied the tray, "looks as if we got to have dinner together at last."

"If you can call this...dinner," Caine remarked wryly.

We all laughed. But even while I was doing it, I remembered the absolute terror I had felt, down on the floor with Bon Bon Hai about to kill me. Fortunately, that memory was countered by the equally vivid image of the shuriken arcing across the room from my out flung hand, and the look of shock on Bon Bon Hai's face when he realized what was happening. Not exactly the kinds of things that I usually have to deal with.

I looked at my two companions and realized I was smiling almost as brightly as the Ancient.

Kwai Chang Caine was back in my life. This could get interesting.


	6. Against Overwhelming Odds

AGAINST OVERWHELMING ODDS

On the morning of a miserably cold winter day, my life took another unexpected turn. I was on duty at the hospital and had left the MRI suite where I worked in order to get the x-ray folder for our next patient from the file room. On the corner of the worktable, several folders lay waiting for the doctors' perusal. The name on one of them caught my eye and my heart skipped a beat.

I picked up the order form, scanning quickly down to the diagnosis: Pneumocystis carinii, the kind of pneumonia that typically strikes people who are HIV+. And just in case there was any doubt, a bright pink sticker proclaimed: BLOOD/BODY FLUIDS PRECAUTIONS.

I looked at the name again, hoping I had made a mistake. It didn't have to be my Bobbie. There must be a thousand Robert Lings in this country, and several of them here in Chinatown alone. My eye skipped over to the date of birth and my soul froze. No, it could still be coincidence. But I had to find out. I noted the room number, then picked up the folder I had come for and went back to MRI.

"Kevin, I'm taking my break now, okay?" I said to my supervisor.

"No problem, Jeremy." He glanced over at me and must have seen how upset I was, even though I thought I was hiding it. "Take as long as you need," he added.

As I often tell people, Kevin's a real good guy. I owe him a lot and I know it.

With my heart in my mouth, I walked into the room and over to the bed. No, there had been no mistake. This was my Bobbie, the gorgeous young man I had loved and lost, mostly due to my own jealous possessiveness, so many years ago.

He seemed to be asleep, his wasted frame swallowed up in the expanse of white linen. Like most Chinese, he'd never been a big man. Slender, delicate, and beautiful, Bobbie had been the darling of the gay crowd in Provincetown in his younger days. Even now, more than ten years older, that ethereal beauty hadn't entirely deserted him. But I'd seen the sunken cheeks and dark-rimmed eyes, the prominent facial bones and pale skin, on too many of my other friends who had died this way. The oxygen cannula running under his nose and the IV dripping into his arm didn't inspire confidence and hope either, but only bore silent witness to his present struggle with pneumonia.

I'd had an AIDS test not long ago and had come out negative, so I knew I was probably okay. But that's purely the luck of the draw. It could just as easily have been me in that bed instead of Bobbie. For all too many years I had been careless. We all were, back then. No one had heard of AIDS. All we knew was that the sexual revolution had finally arrived and we were going to make the best of it. But, as usual, the shadow followed hard on the heels of the light. Far too many erstwhile flower children are now pushing up the flowers instead of wearing them in their hair. And it doesn't look as if it's going to stop anytime soon.

Trying to keep my hand from shaking, I brushed the hair back off Bobbie's forehead, leaned down, and kissed him.

He opened those beautiful black eyes, coughed a few times, then stared at me blearily.

"Hi, kiddo," I said.

He blinked and looked at me again as recognition dawned.

"Jeremy?"

"Live and in person," I replied.

How can I tell you where our conversation went from there? It was difficult for Bobbie to talk at all, since it started him coughing. I couldn't stay long, because I knew Kevin would be needing my help with a difficult patient we had coming, despite what he had said. I left Bobbie with another kiss and a promise to come back again later.

He managed a smile and a tentative wave as I left the room, while I choked back the tears I had no time to shed just then.

But when my shift ended that afternoon, Bobbie's room wasn't my first stop. Instead, I left County General and went to look for Caine. Even though we'd spent some time together a few years ago and I'd just recently run across him again, I don't exactly hang out with him. He has his life and I have mine. But sometimes I'd see him at the hospital, and we got together now and then.

As I hurried anxiously up the stairs to his rooftop apartment, I tried to convince myself that there was hope. I'd heard stories about some of the cures Caine had effected and I knew how he'd fixed me up a couple of times while we had traveled across the country together, so I figured there might be something he could do.

I wasn't even sure he'd be home, since he doesn't have a phone, but I found him sitting on that platform in his workroom, a large leather-bound book open in his lap. He was already looking in my direction when I came in the door.

"You are ... upset?" It wasn't really a question, despite the intonation.

"Yeah, you might say that."

"What is wrong?"

Hitching myself up on the edge of the platform next to him, I explained about Bobbie.

He sighed and closed his eyes briefly, then put one hand on my shoulder. "I cannot cure AIDS, Jeremy."

Maybe he was just saying that because he didn't want me to get my hopes up too high. "But surely you can do something?" I persisted.

"Perhaps. We must go and ... talk to him."

But we hadn't even gotten off the platform when Caine's son came barging through the doorway. "Hi, Pop," he began. "Listen, I've got to talk to you about ... uh, hello, Jeremy. What are you doing here?"

I didn't know Peter too well at this time, but he hadn't exactly taken to me. I think it made him uncomfortable to see his father with a gay guy, although I assure you there was absolutely nothing for him to worry about. (Caine was obviously straight. I don't come on to straight guys, no matter how I may feel about them. But it took Peter a long time to get that through his head.)

Be that as it may, he didn't much like me. Looking at it from the other direction, how did I feel about Peter? If I said envy, would you understand? The boy had Caine's heart, in a way I never could.

Anyway, I figured he wanted to talk to his father privately. "I can wait outside," I offered, trying to be helpful.

"No," Peter said. "Actually, I was looking for you. I just figured Pop ... uh ... Dad would be able to help me get up with you."

Peter Caine looking for me? Will wonders never cease?

"What ... is the problem?" Caine asked.

The boy glanced at me, glanced at his father, then kind of looked at neither of us. "Uh -- I -- I'm not sure -- I --"

Caine tipped his head to one side as he suggested, "Perhaps ... I ... should wait outside?"

"No." Peter propped himself against the edge of a table, almost knocking a tray of dried mushrooms onto the floor in the process. He never did meet my eyes as he explained, "I need some advice. About a murder case."

"From me?"

"Yeah. I figured you might know ... something about some of the... things that are involved."

Oh, great! Something bothered the kid so much that he was starting to talk like his father. This couldn't be good.

"Peter," Caine suggested with a slight smile, "it would help if you could be ... less cryptic?"

"Yeah. Okay." Taking a deep breath, he started over. "There have been three very nasty murders in the last couple of months and I think I'm seeing a pattern here. They seem to be connected to snuff films ..." he looked directly at me this time -- "and the victims have all been drag queens." His eyes flickered over to his father. "Whoever's behind all this seems to have a preference for certain ethnic types, since they were all Chinese. In addition to the coroner's reports, I saw one of the films, and one of the bodies."

His voice was actually shaking now. If a cop was shocked, it must have been pretty bad.

"You -- uh -- don't want to know what they did to these guys before they died," he went on, carefully inspecting the brick floor in front of his feet.

But I could fairly well tell at least a part of what they'd done from the expression on his face. It was the same look men get when you mention the name of John Wayne Bobbitt -- kind of like they want to grab their crotch just to make sure everything's still there.

Caine broke the uncomfortable silence. "Why do you think Jeremy could ... help you with this?"

Peter was on firmer ground here.

"Well, he's into the gay scene. Maybe he'd know about the victims, or where they'd be likely to hang out, or something like that? No one seems too anxious to talk to the law."

"Can you blame them? The cops have seldom been on our side. There are still states where it's illegal just to be gay, for pity's sake!"

Caine looked at me, raising one eyebrow slightly at my vehemence. Well, okay. Maybe I was overreacting a little. I backed off.

"Sorry, Peter. Look, I'll be glad to do what I can, but I need to know more about this. First off, what makes you so sure your victims are drag queens?"

"They're dressed in women's clothes when we find them, and also in the one movie I've seen. And I've been able to get enough info out of their friends to know that this is nothing unusual for them."

"Okay. But there are lots of transvestites, and even some professional female impersonators, who're just as straight as you are."

"I just assumed ..." His voice trailed off. "Okay, I shouldn't assume," he finished, somewhat sheepishly.

Now that I'd made my point, I didn't belabor it.

"Well, there's one club in town that caters to cross-dressers, gay, straight, or otherwise," I suggested.

Now it was his turn to surprise me by saying, "Yeah, I know that."

"Oh?"

"We have ... been there," Caine explained.

"And we're not too interested in going again," Peter interjected vehemently. "Are we, Pop?"

Caine shrugged. Peter looked uncomfortable again. In fact, I do believe he might have been blushing. By now I was real curious about what they'd been up to at that particular place, but I decided this would not be the best time to ask.

"So what can I do that you can't do, Peter?" I inquired.

"Talk to people. Listen for rumors. Try to get me a handle on what's happening and who's behind it."

I nodded, considering his request rather half-heartedly. I really wasn't all that much involved with the gay community these days. Since I'd come here several years ago, I'd been too busy with other things, like x-ray school and my new job, to spend much time hanging out in bars. And just now I had other more pressing things on my mind, things like Bobbie.

Peter must have seen my hesitation. "If I can't get a lead on this, the department will brush the whole thing under the rug, the way they did with the previous victims. Then, sooner or later, we'll find another mutilated body. I don't want that to happen."

"Why not? It's just a bunch of perverts and freaks who are being offed. Why should you care?" I was deliberately baiting him. I'm good at that. But I had my reasons.

He stood up abruptly and started for the door. "All right! If you don't give a damn about helping your own people, then I guess I'm wasting my time. Forget it!"

"Peter." Caine spoke softly, as always, but it was enough to stop his son's headlong flight from the room. "You must learn to listen to the words which lie ... beneath the words spoken aloud. Jeremy ... did not say he would not help. He merely wishes to know why you are pursuing this investigation ... when most of your superiors would probably agree with the remark he just made."

Damn! You'd think I'd be used to the way Caine does that, but it never fails to take me by surprise. He claims he can't read minds, but I've got my doubts.

Be that as it may, I could almost see Peter's feathers unruffle at his father's words.

"That true, Jeremy?" he asked, still standing in the doorway.

"Yeah," I admitted. By now I was feeling rather sorry I had gotten him so riled up. Maybe I'm too suspicious, where cops are concerned. I spread my hands in a mollifying gesture. "Look, Peter, I'll do what I can to help, okay? I can't guarantee I'll find out anything useful, but I'll keep my ears open. I don't want to see anyone else killed, even if they are --" and I smiled enough to take the sting out of my words -- "only drag queens."

"Okay, great." He ran one hand nervously through his already disarranged dark hair. "I've got to get back to the precinct. You know where to find me, if you need me."

I nodded. He was gone as quickly as he'd come, leaving Caine and me to proceed at a more leisurely pace to the hospital to see Bobbie. Caine insisted on walking, even though he still limped slightly from that bullet wound he'd gotten a little over a month ago now. 

Bobbie wasn't exactly overjoyed with the visitor I brought him, especially when I explained why he was there.

"Oh come on, Jeremy. Herbs to cure AIDS? You've got to be kidding. I've already tried everything the doctors have available."

"So why not try this? It couldn't hurt," I suggested.

Bobbie glared at me.

"I ... do not think I can cure you," Caine said carefully, "but I can perhaps ... help ... a little."

Bobbie really looked at him then, taking in the long hair, dark blue Chinese-type shirt, and not very Chinese-type face.

"Are you for real?"

Caine looked down at himself, as if he were checking to make sure. "I ... believe so, yes."

"What the hell are you anyway?" Bobbie demanded.

"I am a Shaolin priest," the other man said quietly.

"No."

Caine shrugged.

Bobbie grabbed Caine's left wrist and pushed his sleeve up far enough to see part of the dragon symbol on his arm.

"Shit, you're serious," he said incredulously. Then he started to cough.

"I ... am usually serious," Caine replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed and resting both hands lightly on Bobbie's chest.

Whatever he did, it worked. The coughing fit subsided. Bobbie sank back against his pillows, still short of breath. He readjusted the oxygen cannula under his nose.

"All I want is to live until February 21. After that, it doesn't matter," he said weakly.

Caine asked the question before I could. "What happens on ... that date?"

"We'll have a display of the AIDS Quilt at the Chinatown Community Center. You do know what the Quilt is, don't you?"

"I have ... heard of it."

"But you've never seen it, right?"

When Caine shook his head, Bobbie went on. "Neither have most of the people in our community. Chinatown's pretty old-fashioned about this kind of stuff, but it's time they started to learn. Past time, actually, now that AIDS has spread into the general population, especially among the young folks. The Quilt can be a powerful tool for education. It has quite an impact on people --"

He'd been talking too long. Another fit of coughing seized him. As Caine touched him again and worked his magic, I sat on the other side of the bed and took Bobbie's hand.

"Okay, it's important and all that," I said as his coughing slackened off. "But why do you care so much about this one particular display? I should think you'd have other things to worry about at this point."

"You don't understand," he replied with a hint of desperation in his cracking voice. "It was my idea to bring the Quilt here. I organized the committee and everything. We've been working on making this happen for months, and it's finally set up. I want to see it before I die."

"You're not going to die," I protested.

"Come off it, Jeremy. I've got AIDS. Once it reaches this stage, there's no other way it ends except in death."

"Is not that how all life ends?" Caine interjected mildly.

"That's easy for you to say, priest. You're not dying."

Caine shrugged again and said mildly, "We are all ... dying."

Bobbie glared at him. "Look, if you can do anything to help me, fine. If not, spare me the cliches. Okay?"

"I will do ... what I can," Caine said, taking no notice of the insult.

"I just want to get well enough to go home for awhile. I'm so sick of hospitals."

"Is there anyone at home to care for you?" Caine inquired. "Family?"

Bobbie looked away, so I explained quickly, "His family disowned him years ago for being gay. Like Chinatown, they're -- kind of old-fashioned."

"Yeah. That's one way to put it," Bobbie interjected. "As long as I pretended otherwise, they were happy to go along. But when I came right out and told them -- well, Jeremy was there. He knows how it was."

Yeah, I knew. But most of the screaming had been in Chinese, so I hadn't gotten any more than an overall impression of what was being said. Up until that night, they'd all been pretty nice to me too. Oh well.

"Where are you living now?" I asked.

He mentioned an address unfamiliar to me. I glanced a question at Caine. "Chinatown, not far from the hospital," he offered.

Bobbie nodded in confirmation. A thought occurred to me, but I wasn't sure I should even put it into words. I decided to take the chance.

"Tell you what. You get well enough to go home and I'll move in with you for a while and kind of look out for you. How does that sound?"

Bobbie studied my carefully-nonchalant face. "Haven't you got your own place?"

"Nothing but a rented room. I've been wanting to live closer to where I work anyway. You'd be doing me a favor."

I could see that he still wasn't too sure about my proposal. Considering all the shit that had gone down between us when we'd broken up years ago, I didn't exactly blame him. But things were different now. Or at least I hoped they could be.

"Let me think about it, okay?"

"First, you must get better," Caine said, as if it had been decided.

Bobbie actually smiled.

 

A week later, he was able to go home from the hospital. Perhaps due to Caine's ministrations, the pneumonia had eased off and he felt strong enough to manage more or less on his own, although the pneumonia had damaged his lungs to the point where he was constantly short of breath. He was on oxygen for a lot of the time also. Much to my delight, he accepted my offer to move in.

Bobbie had one of the downstairs apartments in a row of two-story brick buildings running along the side of a small park. It was a few blocks from the really busy section of Chinatown, so things were relatively quiet. On nice days, we could look out the front windows and see children playing in the park. There was even a concrete pool, but it had no water at this time of year. It would probably be rather pretty come spring.

The building was old, with large, high-ceilinged rooms, built in a day when space wasn't at such a premium and heating costs weren't a major consideration. I took over the spare bedroom. Compared to the small furnished room I'd been living in, this was spaciousness to the point of luxury.

Having someone else to share the rent was a big help for Bobbie, who had already used up most of his savings for medical expenses. He'd sold his life insurance too, as many AIDS patients do. That's become a thriving business these days, although something about it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I tried to play it very cool at first. I was the compassionate nurse and helpful housekeeper, tending to all the shopping and the more strenuous tasks while letting Bobbie do whatever he felt strong enough to attempt, which wasn't much.

Then came the night when I polished the Buddha.

Like many Chinese, Bobbie had this sort of altar or shrine-like thing. The specific items found on such family altars might vary considerably, but it was a fairly common feature of many oriental homes. Caine had one, in that room he generally used for meditation. Bobbie's had a statue of the Buddha, but even that wasn't mandatory. As a general thing, the Chinese seem to be more easy-going about religion than most Westerners. Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, and leftover bits and pieces of more ancient beliefs coexist in a sort of eclectic stew. People feel pretty free to borrow from these various systems, without considering them to be mutually exclusive. Of course, there's also a generous helping of ignorance and just plain old superstition stirred into the mix, but isn't that the case everywhere?

At any rate, Bobbie had never been overly religious, but he'd always had one of these little altars, so I wasn't surprised to find one in the living room of my new quarters. What did surprise me was that this one appeared sadly neglected. A layer of dust covered everything. No fresh flowers filled the vases and the little brass pot had no sticks of incense poking up at odd angles. Even the candles were dusty, which indicated how long it had been since they had been lit. Well, that was understandable. Bobbie had been in the hospital for the last couple of weeks, after all.

I decided it was high time to atone for my roommate's neglect. I came home from work one day with a bunch of carnations from a street vendor and set about making things right. I dusted everything off and filled the two small vases with red and white flowers.

I was in the process of applying wood polish to the Buddha when Bobbie came out of his bedroom.

"Jeremy, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

I had expected a somewhat more positive comment on my handiwork, but maybe he was just in a bad mood after his nap.

"Cleaning this stuff up," I replied carefully, still polishing. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Yeah. This is none of your business."

"Bobbie --"

"Damn it, Jeremy, I didn't ask you to touch my things!"

I set the Buddha gently back in his place on the altar before answering. "It needed cleaning up."

"Yeah. And I suppose the next thing I know you'll be lighting incense too, huh?"

"Well, the thought had crossed my mind," I admitted. "The altar looked pretty neglected."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe there's a reason for that? That maybe I don't care about all this nonsense anymore?"

"Don't say that."

"Why not? What good has it ever done me? I'm still going to die. Why offer flowers and incense to someone who's been dead for over two thousand years? What does it matter?"

"You always told me it was the ideas that mattered, not the person," I objected, thoroughly taken aback by his vehemence.

"None of it matters, damn it! None of it! Do you hear me?"

So saying, Bobbie swept everything off the altar with one hand. Flowers went flying as the vases hit the bare wood of the floor. One vase broke, scattering ceramic bits of blue and white halfway across the room. My lovingly-polished Buddha ended up face down in a puddle of water.

Bobbie stomped back into his room and slammed the door, leaving me staring after him in shock.

I rescued the Buddha and returned him once again to his place. Ignoring the rest of the mess, I went over to Bobbie's door. I could hear him crying. That made up my mind as to what to do next. I opened the door, went into the room and sat down next to him on the bed.

He lay facing the wall, curled up into a ball and sobbing. Not sure what his reaction might be, I nevertheless put my hands on his shoulders and rubbed them gently.

"Okay. What was that all about?" I asked.

For the second time that night, Bobbie took me completely by surprise. He turned around into my arms, clinging to my shirt and crying against my chest.

"It's just so fucking hopeless, Jeremy," he said between sobs. "I'm scared out of my mind. I don't want to die, especially like this, without any reason."

What could I say to that? Each time I had tried to cheer him up with encouraging words, he had ignored me. Words obviously wouldn't do it. I just laid back on the bed, holding him next to me until his crying stopped. Finally, he gave a huge sigh and snuggled closer into my arms.

"It's been ages since anyone so much as touched me," he said at last. "In the hospital, they wear gloves all the time and act as if I'm a one-man plague epidemic. I really can't blame them. I guess I am, in a way, and they've got to be careful."

"Bobbie, my love, I'll never be afraid to touch you," I whispered, kissing the top of his head.

"You mean that? Really?"

"Yeah. I mean it."

Well, I suppose you can guess where we went from there, can't you?

There are only a few ways you can get AIDS, and sex, gay or straight, is one of them. But what could I do? Bobbie was the man I had loved the most in all my life. I couldn't let him think I would no longer make love to him.

Of course, some things carry a greater risk than others, so Bobbie and I were very careful about what we did. But, condoms notwithstanding, there is not now, and has never been, such a thing as truly safe sex, even before AIDS. And that's especially true for women, who have historically died in vast numbers giving birth to children. Think about it.

How much risk is acceptable to you, folks? At what point will you stop driving your car because there's a very real possibility that you could get into an accident? When do you stop taking a shower because you might slip and fall in the tub? Where is the line between being reasonably prudent and being foolhardy? I guess that's something we all have to decide for ourselves.

But let's look at it from another angle. Think of whatever it is that's your own personal favorite sexual activity. No, don't tell me what it is. That doesn't matter. Now bring to mind the one person in all the world you would most like to do it with. Imagine that one person lying naked on your bed, ready, willing, and able to make your fondest wishes come true.

Got the picture? Great. Think about it for a while. Dwell on how terrific it would be, until you're so turned on you can hardly stand it.

Now imagine that dream partner is HIV+. What would you do next? Not what should you do, but what would you do?

See what I mean? The choice isn't all that easy sometimes, is it?

Did I love Bobbie? I mean, really love him? Or was it just memories of another day, another time, when I was -- well, younger, if not exactly young. And Bobbie was beautiful and carefree, and we were gay and out and proud.

I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even capable of love. It never seems to work out, at any rate. To me, love doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry. And it doesn't mean forever. It means something even worse: it means every day, and that scares the shit out of me. I've never been very good at every day. But, for Bobbie, I would have been willing to give it a try.

 

What with my job and taking care of Bobbie, I didn't have much time during the next few weeks to try to dig up clues for Peter. Oh yes, I did go to that cross-dressers' club a couple of times and talked to some folks, but it wasn't my usual hangout and I didn't know many people. I heard a few things: rumors, names mentioned in passing, that sort of stuff, but nothing real definite. Nevertheless, I dutifully passed each tidbit on to Peter, hoping he could make something of it.

All the victims had apparently been adequate but not overly elaborate drag queens. None of them were professional female impersonators, and they were all on the far side of thirty. Coupled with the fact that they were Chinese, Peter thought this pointed in the direction of movies slanted toward a rather specific audience. Of course, the victims might also have simply been the only ones unfortunate, or desperate, enough to have been lured into the murderer's clutches, perhaps by the promise of payment. Assuming they had even been asked ahead of time about appearing in a movie, it was a pretty sure bet they hadn't realized the exact nature of this movie until it was already too late.

Every day or two, Caine or Lo Si would drop by to check on Bobbie. (You know Lo Si, don't you? Sure you do. If you know Caine, you must know the Ancient also.) I couldn't tell you exactly what they did or what was in the stuff they brought him to drink. All I know is that it seemed to be working. Maybe he wasn't getting a lot better, but at least he wasn't getting any worse. That was a victory of sorts.

Throughout most of this time, I felt a sense of emotional deadness. On the surface, I had convinced myself that Bobbie wouldn't die. Caine would work a miracle and my long lost lover and I would live happily ever after. But somewhere deep down, a part of me knew better and closed my feelings off. I stumbled through those precious days like a determinedly cheerful zombie. I did my job, but without the previous sense of enthusiasm that had made it interesting to me. I went home to Bobbie, and tried to tell myself we were happy and all was well.

But an invisible demon sat on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Fool! Stupid blind fool!" And his message was all the more unnerving because I could not see him, and therefore could not recognize him for what he was.

It was almost as if part of me was wrapped in cotton, insulated against the world. If I couldn't care, then I wouldn't hurt when Bobbie died. I was distancing myself from everything. Outwardly, I continued to function. But inside, something was perpetually on hold, braced against a shock I couldn't even admit had to come.

So I was loving and sweet to Bobbie, and it was not an act. I truly did care. How could I not? But somewhere inside, the cotton was wrapped tightly around my heart, so tightly that I never even felt the blood oozing out.

And then it came time for the Quilt to be put on display at the Community Center. Bobbie was in reasonably good shape. He had even been able to attend some of the committee meetings, but he tired easily. When the big day arrived, he wasn't up to helping with the physical work of unloading the Quilt panels and setting up the space, but after resting all morning, he felt strong enough to attend the opening ceremony that afternoon. I insisted he go in his wheelchair, although he didn't want to.

I was pushing him up the access ramp at the side door of the Center when Caine and Lo Si appeared unexpectedly alongside us. Caine took the wheelchair and maneuvered it deftly up the ramp and into the building with the practiced ease of a trained nurse, while the Ancient handed Bobbie another one of his bottled potions to drink.

"We didn't expect to see you two here," Bobbie said, speaking for both of us.

"We would not miss it for the world," Lo Si replied in his strangely-accented English.

We'd barely gotten inside when Peter arrived, accompanied by an attractive dark-haired young woman that he introduced as his partner, Detective Mary Margaret Skalany. If I hadn't expected Caine and the Ancient, I had certainly not expected Peter. Although I didn't mean to be rude, I'm afraid I was too distracted by my concern ever Bobbie's well-being to do much more than mumble, "Pleased to meet you," in the general direction of Peter's partner as we all moved into the main room with the rest of the crowd.

For those of you who may not know, the AIDS Memorial Quilt isn't really a quilt at all. It's made up of separate sections of fabric consisting of eight individual panels sewn together. Each section measures twelve feet by twelve feet and usually contains panels from the same region of the country. The entire thing is too large now to be routinely displayed in one place, since it measures almost fifteen city blocks, but bits and pieces of it get sent to many locations.

Altogether, we had nine of these 12 x 12 sections laid out on the floor, folded up. The visitors filed into the room, crowding along the walls to watch the opening ceremony. In utter silence, a group of white-clad monitors went to each section in turn, walked around it into their prescribed positions, took hold of the corners, unfolded the fabric, lifted it up high, then laid it down on the floor. When all the sections had been thus spread out, a woman went up on stage and took the microphone. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention as she welcomed everyone and explained that they would be reading aloud the names of people who had died of AIDS during the entire time of the display. I was too busy looking around the room.

After the welcome speech was over, I pushed Bobbie slowly around as we examined the various fabric panels. Perhaps it was not surprising that the hall was hushed and very quiet, despite the crowd. Now and then, someone would recognize Bobbie, come over and say a few words or give him a hug. Caine and Lo Si trailed along slightly behind us, with Peter and his partner not far away. There was something about the entire thing that discouraged casual conversation. People stood silently reading names and staring at the decorated panels.

In many ways, this is the Vietnam Wall of the gay community. (And there are actually more names now on the Quilt than on the Wall.) Visitors bring flowers or other tokens to leave on the panels of lost friends or relatives. Boxes of tissues are set in strategic locations.

Just looking at the Quilt is an awesome and sobering experience.

We have made our gravestones of a more lasting substance than granite or marble. We have made them of fabric and love and simple mementos, and set them before the world, to bear witness to the enormity of our loss and the humanity of our lost.

What else could we do?

 

As Bobbie and I went from panel to panel, I tried hard not to cry, not to feel. But it was impossible.

I couldn't acknowledge the truth: that my Bobbie would someday soon be nothing but a name on a piece of fabric. I couldn't look that fact square in the face then.

But the tears ran down my cheeks even so, and I stopped to take a tissue from one of the boxes, wiping my nose and cleaning the moisture off my glasses.

"Give me one too," Bobbie requested.

I held the box out to my lover, staying carefully behind the wheelchair so he couldn't see my face.

Bobbie blew his nose, then turned to look at me and asked calmly, "Will you make a panel for me when I'm dead?"

"Don't talk like that. You're doing fine."

"Jeremy, dammit, face the facts!" he hissed.

"I'll make one if you want me to," I replied grudgingly.

"I do."

"Then I will. I promise."

Shortly after that, I insisted we leave, since Bobbie seemed to be tiring. Caine caught up to us at the exit.

"I ... will help you get home, if you wish," he offered.

"Thanks. My car's parked around the corner. I'll go get it, if you'll stay here with Bobbie."

Caine nodded.

"By the way, where's the Ancient?" I asked as I dug under my coat and searched through my hip pocket for my car keys.

Caine inclined his head in the direction of the stage, where Lo Si was just now taking his place at the podium. "He has ... volunteered to read some of the names."

That old guy never fails to surprise me.

 

We had just about gotten Bobbie settled in the back seat of my car and stowed his wheelchair in the trunk when Peter came hurrying out of the building.

"Hold on a minute. I've got to talk to you," he said.

"We are taking Bobbie home," his father replied, as he folded himself into the front seat. "Meet us there, if you wish to talk."

"But Pop --"

"A cold and windy street corner is not the place for an important discussion, my son."

"How'd you know it was important?"

Caine shrugged, as if the answer should be obvious.

Peter raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, I give up. Give me a minute to tell Skalany I'm leaving and then I'll follow you there."

Caine nodded shortly and rolled the window up.

 

"I think we have a suspect," Peter began, following us up the half dozen steps that led to the front door. When Bobbie's knees gave out as he struggled out of the car, Caine had simply lifted him and carried him up the stairs, while I went ahead to unlock the door. Unlike some folks around a person with AIDS, Caine had never hesitated to touch Bobbie, when necessary.

Caine turned and indicated the open trunk of my car with a brief lift of his chin. "The wheelchair, Peter."

"Huh? Oh. Okay, Pop. I'll get it."

 

"Trouble is," Peter went on, once we were all settled in the living room, "right now it's nothing but rumors. I've got no hard evidence, and certainly nothing to warrant an arrest."

"So what have you got?" I asked.

"Hints that a drag queen who goes by the name of Alice Silber is somehow involved with the killings. She's been known to hang out at that club, and she's been seen with the victims."

I nodded. I had heard the name once or twice myself. I was mildly surprised that Peter had used the feminine pronoun when referring to his suspect. Most straight folks kind of fumble around, trying to figure out if they should use "he" or "she" for a man in drag.

"If these rumors are loud enough that you've heard them," I pointed out, "I'll lay odds she's finding it pretty tough to recruit new prospects about now."

"If she recruits them at all," Bobbie put in. "It's quite possible the victims are simply kidnapped, isn't it?"

"For all we know, yeah. But this is the only lead I've got."

Bobbie frowned. "Well, it doesn't sound like much. You need someone to come forward who's actually been approached."

"Can you not send in an ... undercover agent?" Caine suggested.

That sounded good to me. "Maybe Alice could be tricked into saying or doing something that would give you a definite lead? Especially if you recorded what went on?"

"Well, yeah."

We were all staring at Peter now. His father had even raised one eyebrow slightly, as if he were asking a question.

"Hey, wait a minute! Don't look at me that way! I couldn't --"

"Why not?" Bobbie asked. "You've got kind of a pretty face. With the right makeup -- "

"No way! No! Not!"

"Nah, Bobbie," I said, breaking up the gag. "He'd never be convincing. Look at how red his face is getting just from thinking about it."

"I guess you've got a point there. He'd never be able to carry it off."

"You guys have been putting me on, right?" Peter said.

He calmed down enough to smile as Bobbie and I nodded in unison. "Okay, all kidding aside, we still haven't gotten past square one. I have no way to confirm my suspicions. The precinct's not exactly overflowing with guys qualified to pose convincingly as female impersonators, even if the powers that be were willing to give this case high priority, which they're not."

I caught Bobbie's eye. He gave a fractional nod of his head.

"Uh --" I began, wondering if I would regret this later on, "that's not a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell you what, Pete: you go get a bugging device and meet us back here in a few hours. I think I can find you a volunteer to act as bait on this little fishing expedition, as long as it doesn't have to be a cop."

"I was hoping you'd know somebody."

"Yeah. You just get lost for a while and let me work on this, okay?"

"Right. I'll go see if I can wangle Blake into getting me the electronics, kind of off the record, you know?"

I guess it would have to be off the record, if a civilian was going to be involved.

That got Peter out of our hair. Now what was I going to do about Caine? He was parked comfortably on the couch and showed no signs of wanting to move.

"Don't you have somewhere you'd like to go for a while?" I asked, hoping he'd take the hint.

He shook his head and smiled slightly. "I have seen ... female impersonators ... and I wish to know how it is done."

"How'd you know what we've got planned?"

"Is it not ..." He shrugged and spread his hands ... "obvious?"

Okay, so he stayed and watched. I'm not above indulging someone's curiosity, if it comes from a genuine interest.

It took Bobbie almost three hours to make me into a woman, but the results were worth it. Now, I don't make a habit of this, but I've been in drag a couple of times before, in my younger days, so I know how it's done. Of course, it's harder at my age, but at least I'm not very tall and I'm reasonably slender. That helps. My bifocals are in fairly unisex frames, which also helps. I'd be entirely unable to function without them.

Contrary to popular belief, not all of the men who dress up as women actually want to be women. As I had once pointed out to Peter, quite a few transvestites aren't even gay. Of course, there are also folks who truly would prefer to be of the opposite sex. I'm not one of them, and neither was Bobbie.

By now I'll bet you've got my Bobbie pegged as a hairdresser or fashion designer or some other equally swishy occupation. Sorry, but when he was well enough to work, he was a painter. You're probably thinking artist, right? Easel and palette, maybe a French beret? Nay. Bobbie painted houses for a living. He was damn good at it too.

But he was also damn good at clothes and makeup. He trimmed and styled my hair, which was fortunately rather long at the time, and dyed it black, then fixed me up to look about half oriental, since this Silber person seemed to have a preference for ethnic types. The shape of my face was wrong to be full Chinese, but by the time Bobbie was done with me, I could have passed for someone with mixed blood. Add to that one of those Chinese dresses with a slit up the side in a lovely shade of pale green, plus a long-sleeved lacy white sweater, and the illusion was pretty good.

Of course, I was way too old to look like the gorgeous young thing I used to be, but I made a reasonably attractive older woman. Since all of the other victims had been a bit overage, I figured it would work all right. Unless you have just the right kind of face and body, you're better off not trying to look too glamorous anyway. Bobbie, on the other hand, truly did have the delicate features and slender body that looked great in drag. But he wasn't in any condition to do what I intended to do.

Meanwhile, Caine seemed to find the entire process quite fascinating. He kept unobtrusively out of Bobbie's way, but I could see that he was watching us intently. When he finally spoke up, I was perched on the edge of the bed as Bobbie sat in his wheelchair applying polish to my fake nails.

"You will need ... a name."

"Got any suggestions?"

"I think ... Jade Cheng would suit you."

I tried it on for size. "Jade Cheng. Yeah. I like it."

The doorbell rang. Caine rose to his feet. "That is probably my son. I will answer it. We would not want you to ... ruin your fingernails, would we?"

He was in the other room before I could figure out if he'd been making a joke.

 

Bobbie took one last look to check me over. Satisfied, he nodded. I was ready to get up and go inside when he stopped me with a hand on my arm. "I want you to wear my grandmother's ring tonight. For luck."

For as long as I'd known him, Bobbie had worn that ring on his right middle finger. It was jade; just a narrow band with intertwined dragons intricately carved into its surface. I'd never seen him take it off, but now he was twisting at it, trying to squeeze it over his knuckle.

"You'll hurt yourself," I cautioned.

"No, it's okay. I've lost a lot of weight. It'll come off."

It did, and he held it out to me.

"Bobbie, I can't. What if I lose it or something?"

"Take it, damn it!" he said vehemently. "I want you to."

"Okay, okay. Don't get all bent out of shape." Still reluctant, I picked up the ring. The only one of my fingers it would fit was the one where a wedding band was supposed to go. I held out my hand, fingers spread the way a woman does when she examines her fingernails. Combined with my fake red nails, the effect was rather nice. But I felt awfully uncomfortable wearing Bobbie's only family heirloom.

"Bobbie, I really don't want --"

"Shush. Come on. It's time to greet our guests."

"Guests? It's only Peter."

"I thought I heard the Ancient's voice too. Didn't you?"

Truth to tell, I hadn't been listening. But it wouldn't surprise me. Lo Si had Caine's habit of appearing unexpectedly when something was going on.

Bobbie insisted on getting out of the wheelchair. I strolled into the living room on his arm.

Peter's mouth dropped open and didn't close again for the next couple of minutes. At least that meant he kept quiet.

Bobbie had been right about Lo Si. The old man stood just inside the door. Fixing my gaze on the Ancient, I inclined my head in what I hoped was a demure gesture of respect and smiled, looking at him from under my mascara eyelashes.

He came over and gave me a severely appraising inspection from all angles before finally saying, "Jeremy, that is bloody marvelous."

"Xie-xie," I replied graciously, using my little bit of Chinese to thank him. Then I dropped the act, reverting to my normal tone of voice. "Glad you like it."

Lo Si just smiled. From the gleam in his eyes, I almost thought he'd have asked me out on a date, if he hadn't known what I really was.

Peter finally closed his mouth, but only long enough to open it again. "I don't believe this," he said.

"You ought to try it sometime," I told him. "Gives you a whole new perspective on being a man." Although I had directed that remark to Peter, it was his father who answered.

"I ... may," Caine said thoughtfully. Not exactly what I expected. But then, when does he ever say what you expect him to?

"Pop!" Peter protested.

Caine held up his hand to forestall any further comments from that direction. "Jeremy, are you sure you can do this well enough to fool everyone? To be a woman is ... more ... than just clothing and makeup."

He was all too right about that, as any good drag queen knows. You have to have the gestures, the mannerisms, the movements, the voice, and all those other things that society has chosen as gender cues. If you overdid it, you would be too obvious. But if you couldn't do it, you wouldn't fool anyone, despite the best makeup in the world and the most stunning outfit. It's amazing how very much of gender is nothing but a role, a costume, a part one chooses to play.

"Yeah," Peter said grudgingly. "If you blow it, Alice will know someone's on to her."

I walked over to where he sat perched on the edge of a table. Running a carefully manicured red fingernail along the edge of his jaw, I said in my best strong-and-competent-woman voice, "Don't worry about me, baby. I'll make out just fine."

He jumped up from the table and retreated backwards in red-faced confusion. "Jeez, Jeremy, don't do that, huh?"

I laughed daintily.

"So what did you come up with for a bug?" Bobbie asked, bringing us back to the business at hand.

Peter pulled a little round black thing out of his pocket. "This will pick up everything that's said and transmit it to the recorder in the car." He glanced at his father and the Ancient. "I borrowed one of the unmarked sedans from the precinct, since my car is pretty small and I figured you two would insist on coming along."

"I want to be there too," Bobbie said.

"Do you think that's really a good idea?" Peter asked dubiously.

"Why not? It's not like this is dangerous or anything, right? Jeremy's only going to talk to this Alice person and try to get you more info."

"Bobbie, you should stay here and rest," I objected. "It's getting late."

"No way."

I recognized the look in his eyes and knew I had already lost the argument. Bobbie can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be. In the end, Peter agreed to let him come along. I was to drive my own car to the club, while the others followed and parked not too far away in the sedan.

I placed Peter's bug inside my generously-padded bra for safe keeping, then wrapped myself in a heavy wool shawl against the cold night air, for lack of a proper woman's coat.

When we were all set, the Ancient came over and offered me his arm.

"Shall we go, my dear?" he asked.

Although I was very tempted to give him a kiss on the cheek, I figured that might be overdoing things a little. So I just took his arm and walked out with him.

 

Less than an hour later, I sat primly at one of the small tables, sipping now and again at my strawberry daiquiri and pretending to a detached interest in the floor show at the far side of the room. So far nothing had happened, but the night was still young. I had the dubious advantage of being the only oriental-looking person in the club, even though it was only Bobbie's make-up.

It's hard enough pretending to be a woman, but trying to simultaneously telegraph the fact that you're really a man pretending to be a woman is even harder. However, in these particular surroundings, almost no one was what he (or she) seemed.

I had decided my best bet was to act as if I were new at this: a little shy, nervous, maybe even in drag for the first time. That might cover up the very real nervousness I felt, sitting there hoping to attract the attention of a murderer. I had just about decided I was wasting my time when a waiter appeared at my table with a fresh daiquiri, saying it had been bought by someone who would very much like to meet me. Of course, it didn't have to be our quarry. It could have been a simple pick-up attempt. Smiling graciously, I accepted the drink and asked that my unknown benefactor come to my table.

A drag queen bearing a definite resemblance to Dolly Parton strolled over on the arm of a ruggedly-handsome young man.

I lifted my glass and indicated the empty chairs at my table. "Please join me. And thank you for the drink."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," the blonde said, in a voice that sounded quite feminine. She was very convincing, despite being a touch overdressed for my taste. And the cleavage certainly looked real. Probably implants.

"I don't believe I've seen you here before," she went on. "Are you new in town?" 

I lowered my eyes demurely. "Yes. I heard about this place, and thought it sounded interesting."

"Oh, it is. Very interesting." She studied me for a moment, then glanced at her silent companion. "Allow me to welcome you to town, my dear. My name is Alice, and my friend here is called Carl."

My heart skipped a beat. I gave her my name, still trying to sound like the shy country cousin in the big bad city for the first time.

"Jade," she cooed. "How very lovely. It suits you, my dear. It truly does."

We went on this way for a while, discussing nothing as femininely as possible, commenting on the performer's hairstyle, the absolutely ravishing evening gown someone over by the door was wearing, and other such frivolities. Carl never said a word, but I caught him staring at me intently several times.

Eventually, we got down to business.

"How would you like to make a lot of money for a few hours' work, Jade?" Alice asked casually.

"I'm -- not sure I know what you mean. I'm not a hooker or --"

She cut off my protest with a touch of her hand on my arm. "Oh no, my dear. Nothing like that, I assure you. Just some photographs. I have a number of clients who would pay well for pictures of such a lovely lady as yourself."

I pretended to modest confusion and laughed nervously. "Surely you can't be serious? I'm nothing special. There are dozens of far more beautiful people in this very room."

"Oh, but you are special, my dear," she assured me, leaning forward and smiling brightly. "My clients like oriental ladies." She waved her free hand negligently. "All these other folks are so common."

"Well, I could use some cash," I allowed hesitantly, hoping to egg her on. "But I really don't think I want to do anything like that."

We went back and forth that way for a few minutes, with me trying to get her to elaborate on what she wanted and her trying to reassure me.

Was this going to be enough for Peter, or should I keep at it?

The decision was abruptly taken out of my hands. Alice glanced at Carl and gave a slight nod. He pulled one side of his jacket open just far enough to allow me a glimpse of his other hand holding an automatic pistol. Alice's hand closed tightly around my wrist. Still with a friendly smile on her painted face, she leaned closer and said softly, "You'll come with us now, my dear. Or you'll be very sorry."

They both stood up, lifting me to my feet as they did so.

"Now wait a minute --" I protested.

"Shut up!" Carl hissed. "Walk."

Together, we headed in the direction of the rest rooms. I wondered briefly why they weren't taking me to the main entrance, then I saw that there was an exit door just past the rest rooms. I tried to hold back, but they each had an arm and I felt Carl's pistol pressed against my ribs. I was outside before I even thought about resisting, with Alice and Carl hustling me toward a silver-gray Lincoln parked at the side of a deserted street. Another highly photogenic and muscular young man got out of the car and opened the back door as we approached.

Gun or no gun, I didn't want to get into that car. Gambling that they wouldn't shoot me and damage the merchandise, I tried to pull free, at the same time aiming a kick at Carl.

Have you ever tried to kick someone while you're wearing a tight skirt? It doesn't work very well. I got a fist in the stomach for my trouble, then the other young man grabbed the front of my dress and flung me unceremoniously into the back seat. I was still doubled over and struggling to catch my breath as the Lincoln pulled away from the curb.

Alice and Carl were sandwiched in on either side of me, while the other man drove.

"That wasn't very cooperative of you, my dear," Alice said. "You made us mess up your nice outfit." She grabbed me by the torn bodice of my dress and pushed me back against the seat.

"Please don't hurt me," I begged between gasps, hoping Peter had caught onto what was happening and would be following us. Or was his bug just a recorder, and not a tracking device? I hadn't asked. "Let me go. Please. I don't want to --"

"Shut up!" Alice growled, shaking me roughly. Then her eyes dropped down to my chest. I looked down also. The torn dress had left my fake tits exposed, with the little black bug in plain sight at the edge of my bra. Oh, shit!

Her fingers followed her eyes, and in a moment the bug sat in the palm of her hand, while my heart almost decided to stop beating.

"Well, well. What have we here? Looks like some kind of a recording device."

I couldn't think of an answer, so I settled for a haughty stare.

"Now, why would you want to record our conversation, my dear? I do hope you weren't planning to go to the police with this."

I kept silent. Let them go on thinking it was nothing but a recorder. The more Peter heard the better. And the longer he could keep tracking us, if indeed it was a tracker.

"Ronnie, take the long way around. Jade and I need a little time to talk."

The driver nodded.

"Perhaps you can explain this?" Alice purred.

I shook my head, stalling for time.

She poked at the black ovoid with one fingernail. "Maybe this doesn't just record. Maybe it's a tracker also," she mused.

I devoutly hoped so, because I had caught no sight of Peter's sedan when I had risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror a moment ago.

Very deliberately, Alice let the bug fall to the floor of the car, where she crushed it under a spike heel. Scooping up the pieces, she tossed them out the window.

"There now, isn't that better? Now we won't be disturbed."

Peter, where are you? This would be a good time to hear a siren.

All I heard was the rush of traffic around us, and a low chuckle from the driver.

Alice clamped one hand just above my knee, pressing her fingers into the pressure points on either side of the bone.

"Talk to me, Jade. What are you up to?"

I winced as her grip tightened, but said nothing.

"There are ways to hurt people without doing any significant damage. Would you like to find out what they are?"

I decided silence would serve no further purpose. I stopped playing the shy and terrified lady and tried for a smartass approach instead. It's much more my style.

"That depends. Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. You can tell me why you're here and what you hoped to accomplish."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Tsk! Such language for someone who thinks he's a lady."

I did a lot of squirming and strangled screaming as she made good on her threat, but I didn't tell her what she wanted to know, which actually surprised me. What I did tell her was a story I concocted on the spur of the moment about being a friend of her last victim and trying to conduct my own private investigation into his murder. I tried to convince her I was working alone, without police involvement, hoping to record something incriminating.

"Well, Jade," she concluded at last, "if you were the bait, you just caught a bigger fish than you or any of your other perverted friends will be able to fry."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm very good at what I do, because I've had years of practice. I'm not just in this for the money, although that's certainly a factor. It's amazing what some people will pay to see. I'm basically doing it because I hate your kind."

"My -- kind?"

"Men who think they can be better women than real women. Sick perverts like you."

"I suppose killing people isn't sick and perverted?"

"I'm not killing people. I'm disposing of trash. And in a fitting and appropriate manner, I might add."

Now she had me thoroughly confused. "But why would you want to prey on your own people? I've heard of self-hatred, but this is ridiculous."

It was her turn to be confused now. "My own people? What in the blazing hell are you talking about?"

Ronnie caught on before she did. "He thinks you're a man, Alice," the driver explained, barely suppressing a laugh.

She leaned away from me, insult clear on her face.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" The fire in her eyes could have melted the ice in her voice.

"Well, the club, the extravagant clothes and overdone makeup. I just assumed --"

She looked at me, one plucked and penciled-in eyebrow raised.

Right, Jeremy. Never assume. Isn't that what you once tried to tell Peter? I thought, as the light dawned.

"You're not a man?" I said lamely.

"No shit, Sherlock," was the arch reply. She (really "she" this time!) laughed at my error. Unfortunately, she still sounded angry. I'd have preferred a touch of genuine amusement.

"I assume you have a rough idea of what I have planned for you, my dear?"

I nodded.

"It might cheer you to know that this is the last movie I'll be doing in this country. I've decided to take my little production company on the road again. I usually move to a new city after each movie, but the pickings have been so good here that I just couldn't bear to leave. Still, if the perverts themselves have taken to hunting me down, I figure it's time to move on. What do you say, boys? Maybe we ought to try Canada for a while."

Carl said nothing, as usual, leaving Ronnie to answer for them both. "Sure, Alice. I hear there are some pretty strange people up there. Anyplace you want is okay with us. You're the one paying the bills."

Satisfied, she smiled and leaned back in the seat. "Take us to the studio, Ronnie. We've wasted enough time on this already."

We made an abrupt turn onto a busy street. Shortly thereafter, we stopped briefly at a red light. I'd pretty much lost track of where we were and I certainly didn't recognize the street corner, but I caught a glimpse of a sign that read "Prince Street" just as he turned off the crowded thoroughfare. That told me nothing, other than the fact that we were in a part of the city unfamiliar to me. It was dark and deserted at this hour. Mostly old buildings with the appearance of a factory district that had seen better days.

Shortly after that, the car pulled over and carefully backed down to the end of a dingy little alley that dead-ended in a wall. I glanced around as well as I could as they hustled me across the cracked pavement and into the side door of what might have been an old warehouse or factory, judging by the aged brick walls and lack of windows. There wasn't much to distinguish this street or building from any other one in the immediate vicinity. I still didn't know exactly where I was. As the heavy door clanged shut behind me, I reflected that it might not much matter if I knew my location or not, since I now had no way to get that information to Peter.

The place was big and kind of echoey, as if there was more empty space out there in the unlighted darkness. I could just about make out high ceilings with exposed pipes, fluorescent light fixtures, and ventilation or heating conduits running every which way in the dimness overhead.

Ronnie flicked a couple of switches and some lights came on in a partitioned-off corner of the building. It looked rather like you'd expect the costume and make-up area of a movie studio to look, but on a smaller scale.

Carl still had his gun out and pointed at me as they marched me over into the light. I stood there self-consciously holding the front of my ripped dress closed, pretty much the way a woman might do under the same circumstances, while Alice circled around me, her eyes appraising my appearance.

"Ronnie, I'm afraid we've messed him up quite a bit," she said at last. "Fix his makeup. I don't want him looking this disheveled." She favored me with a nasty smile. "Not yet, anyway."

"Sure, Alice. You want him dressed better too?"

She nodded and continued her inspection, fingering the fabric of my skirt. "This shade of green is good on him, but the dress has got to go. Suggestions?"

"I know just the thing." Ronnie sorted through a rack of costumes, pulling out an extravagant concoction of lace, ruffles, and short gauzy skirts that looked like it might well be one of Victoria's better-kept Secrets. In my wildest daydreams, I'd never worn anything like that. It was, however, a delicate shade of green.

Ronnie held it up in front of me. Alice nodded.

"Got shoes to go with it?"

"Of course."

He produced a pair of spike heels with sling backs.

"Wait a minute," I objected. "I can't walk in those things."

"Don't worry. You don't have to walk very far. Or for very long."

Then he did a double-take, his eyes sliding over my face and coming back again to focus on it more sharply. He pulled my glasses off and ran a finger along the top of one of my eyelids. I made a successful grab for the glasses and replaced them on my nose as he announced, "Alice, this guy's not Chinese at all, but someone did a pretty good job of making him appear to be."

Alice had gone over to one of the mirrors and was vigorously brushing out her bleached-blond hair. Frowning, she laid the brush aside and came over to me. Taking my chin in one hand, she turned my head first one way then another.

"I like the illusion and my viewers prefer ethnic types," she decided at last. "Keep this basic look, but make it more pronounced, okay?"

"However you want it. It's your show."

"Indeed it is."

Her hand stroked my cheek, sliding back into my hair. She grabbed a handful and jerked my head back, hard enough to hurt.

"The hair isn't very long, but it's real, isn't it, my dear?"

"Yes," I replied through clenched teeth.

"That's nice. I despise wigs. Like condoms, they have a habit of coming off at the wrong times."

She opened her hand, but didn't take it away. Instead, her fingers slid around to my ear, pushing my hair out of the way.

"Don't care much for the earrings. Too much like something my mother would wear. Are your ears pierced?"

"Only the left one."

"Tsk tsk. Real women have both ears pierced. Oh well, that's not really a problem. Something green and dangly, Ronnie."

"Gotcha."

"Now hold on --" I started to object.

"Shut up and put this on," Ronnie said, thrusting the green lacy outfit into my arms. I just stood there, pretty much in shock.

"Do it, or I'll take that dress off you myself."

That didn't sound nearly as nice as it might have, under other circumstances. I did as I was told.

After helping me master the fine points of getting into the elaborate negligee, Ronnie circled around, inspecting me with a critical eye. He grabbed my hands, turning my arms up so he could see the network of thin white scars that crisscrossed each wrist.

"What happened here?" he asked scornfully. "You try to off yourself because you weren't a woman?"

"No, it was nothing like that at all."

He just shrugged. "Here, put on these wristlets. They should cover the scars pretty well."

They did.

A couple of minutes later, I found myself seated in a chair while Ronnie repaired and elaborated on my makeup. He'd taken off my glasses again, which made me half-blind and even more vulnerable. This was the first time I'd actually had a chance to think about my situation. The thoughts weren't particularly comforting.

I was about to become the unwilling star of a movie that would have no redeeming social value whatsoever. If I were Caine, or even Peter, I could perhaps have fought my way out of here. As things stood, I was still sore from my earlier attempt to prove my martial arts prowess, not to mention the lovely lady's tender ministrations.

My imagination insisted on dwelling on the immediate future. Nobody knew where I was, so no cavalry would come charging over the hill in the nick of time. About the best I could hope for was that I might be able to goad them into killing me fairly quickly, but I didn't even have much chance at that. After all, it was a movie they wanted. If it were a TV show, I could at least figure on all the time taken out for commercials. Even a made-for-TV movie would be an improvement.

(Yeah, I really thought all that. My mind was literally gibbering, even as I tried my best to maintain an outward show of calm.)

It wasn't much consolation to realize that Peter would have his suspicions irrevocably confirmed after they found my body. Maybe he'd even be able to catch up with Alice and her cronies before they left the country. Even so, it wouldn't do me any good.

I had my hands tightly clenched in my lap, so they wouldn't betray me by shaking. As the fake nails of one hand dug into the palm of the other, I became aware of Bobbie's ring on my finger. I traced the slight indentations of the carved dragons with a fingertip, thinking of the lover I would probably never see again.

That didn't exactly make me feel any better, but it sent my thoughts off in another direction. Bobbie, who even now would be worrying about me, along with Caine, Lo Si, and Peter. Peter would doubtless be totally frustrated, having realized his homing device had been destroyed and not knowing where to search for me. What would Caine and the Ancient be doing?

I remembered how Caine had touched my mind, when I was about to be killed by Bon Bon Hai a while back, even as Caine himself lay in the hospital, recovering from a bullet wound. The Ancient had helped him to contact me, he'd said, but even so it had been difficult.

Yeah, but he'd done it, hadn't he? Maybe he could do it again, if I gave him a chance.

Ronnie had finished with the makeup and was working on my hair, combing and styling it deftly. I closed my eyes, trying to form a picture in my mind of how Caine had looked on the various occasions I'd seen him meditating. I made an attempt at calling up that same sort of quietness in my mind. At first I was simply too scared to breathe properly, but after a couple of minutes some of the fear drifted away and my thoughts focused on the remembered image of his face, almost in profile.

I'm here, I thought. Oh please, find me! And make it soon!

I don't know how long I kept that up. It seemed like forever, yet it also seemed the briefest of instants. At one point, I thought I heard his voice in my mind, just the faintest whisper of "Jeremy? Where ...?" But that so freaked me out that my concentration slipped and I wasn't sure if I lost it or not. Nevertheless, I fixed my mind on what little I knew of my location, visualizing the street sign I had seen earlier and then the alley outside the entrance to the warehouse, with Alice's silver-gray Lincoln parked at the end. Maybe I wasn't making contact, or maybe I'd only imagined that brief trace of Caine's presence, or maybe he wouldn't be able to figure out where I was when I didn't really know myself. I'm no good at this telepathic stuff. I couldn't tell for sure.

Alice brought me abruptly back to reality by gouging her thumb into one of those nasty little pressure points on my shoulder. A certain amount of courage must have seeped into me from my concentration on Caine because I didn't so much as flinch at the sudden pain.

"Excellent," she said. "At least we haven't got a totally gutless wonder on our hands. Makes for better drama that way. I rather thought you might be a good prospect, after our little session in the car."

She handed me my glasses and turned the chair so I faced the mirror. "What do you think of the new you?"

You want to talk about a makeover? When I saw the image in the mirror, I had a hard time convincing myself it was really me. I had no idea I could look quite that gorgeous. Bobbie would have been amazed. He was good, but this was professional-level work. I was impressed despite my fear.

Then I got a good look at what Alice and Carl were wearing.

They were both in skintight black leather costumes, replete with studs and chains. They even wore masks that covered face and head; if I hadn't known who they were, I wouldn't have been able to recognize them. Of course, that would be the idea, if they meant to be in the movie themselves.

The outfits were so obviously stereotypical that they almost seemed ridiculous. I've fooled around a little with BDSM, so I know how the game is played. If that's all there was to this, I wouldn't have been so scared. But BDSM is a game, played with the full consent of everyone involved. It has its limits. Despite the silly costumes, this was for real. 

I guess Alice must have been enjoying the look on my face, because she laughed. Then she fingered the ruffles at my bodice. "You'll probably enjoy the first part of this, my dear. It's designed to prove you really are a man, despite this outfit."

At a wave of her hand, Ronnie hoisted me out of the chair and led me past several racks of costumes and over to another well-lighted area of the warehouse. "Okay," he explained as we went, "here's how it works. Feel free to struggle and scream all you want, but if you try to say anything that hints at who we are, we'll have you gagged and go on from there. Got that?"

I nodded as I looked over what appeared to be a stage set with the appearance of a medieval dungeon. Well, at least it went with their costumes.

"What now? We gonna play dungeons and dragons?" I quipped.

"Ha ha, very funny," Ronnie replied coldly.

"No, it's okay," Alice put in. "I like it better when they show a little spirit. That won't last long, don't worry." She glanced over at Ronnie, who had picked up a video camera and was fiddling with the controls. "Ready?"

He nodded. Alice grinned. "Okay. Action!"

Carl grabbed hold of me and dragged me roughly into the room. Considering the spike heels I was wearing, it was all I could do to stay on my feet. As it was, I took a nasty crack on the head when he thrust me up against the wall. Before I knew what was happening, they had my back to the wall and my wrists clamped into manacles off to each side of my head. Alice strode over to face me, holding a riding crop in one hand.

No one had said I couldn't fight back. I raised one leg and kicked her squarely in the stomach, heels and all. Unfortunately, her leather outfit protected her from any real damage, but she did stagger backwards and land on her ass, gasping for breath in a most unladylike manner.

"You'll pay for that, pervert," she said as soon as she could breathe again. "Oh yes, you'll pay."

I believed her.

 

I must admit that she had told the truth earlier on. I almost enjoyed what they did for starters. That is, if you can enjoy having someone jerk you off rather roughly, while simultaneously being jeered at and smacked around. I can't say I enjoyed getting hit with the riding crop, but at least it's not the kind of thing that causes lasting damage or serious internal injury. By the time they began getting really nasty, my already flimsy outfit was pretty well ruined and my hair and make-up were a disaster area. I was also beginning to run out of smart remarks.

(Okay, I'm being funny. But you really don't want to know what it's like to be chained to a wall and savaged, do you? If you do, go out and try it yourself sometime. If it's for real, and you're going to end up dead, I doubt very much that you'll enjoy it.)

When Alice took out a short-bladed but very sharp knife and held it up in front of my face, I knew things were about to get serious.

"Okay, pervert," she said with cruel delight. "You want to be a woman? I'll make you one."

I couldn't let that pass without making a smart comeback. After all, how much worse could it possibly make things?

"You're selling yourself short, lady. A woman is something entirely different from a man with his prick cut off."

"What would you know about it?" she sneered.

"Apparently, a whole lot more than you do."

"We'll see about that, my dear." She laughed shortly as she moved closer to me. I couldn't take my eyes off the shining blade of the knife in her hand.

"Police! Freeze!"

I never imagined I'd be so happy to hear Peter's voice, although I couldn't see him. For that first glorious instant, I imagined it was all over and I was safe, until someone killed the lights, plunging the entire building into darkness.

A couple of shots rang out, but people soon gave up shooting blind. From my vantage point, all I could hear was an occasional shout or scuffle. I had no idea whether Peter had come to my rescue alone or if he'd brought the entire police force. I was frankly hoping for the latter, but it was just too quiet. Alice and her cronies had to be trying to find their way out of the building, even as Peter (and his back-up?) attempted to collar them.

Meanwhile, I struggled vainly to get my wrists free, desperately wanting to call for help, but not at all certain it wouldn't draw the attention of the wrong party.

"Jeremy, hold still. I will free you." Caine's voice next to my ear, barely above a whisper.

"You don't have the keys --" I stopped when I felt the manacles let go. I didn't bother to ask how he did it.

"Come with me," he said, taking a firm grip on my arm. I tried, but my ankles wobbled sideways and twisted in the damn spike heels. I would have fallen except that he held me up.

"You are hurt?"

I quickly kicked off the shoes.

"It's okay. Let's go."

How Caine found his way around in the total darkness, I have no idea. I just went whichever way he pulled me. I think someone attacked us or blundered into us at one point, because Caine moved away from me for a few moments and I heard something going on. Then we were through a doorway and I felt cold outdoor air on my skin. I blinked stupidly in the sudden glare from a streetlight, trying to figure out where we were. It seemed to be the same alley I'd seen earlier, but Alice's Lincoln was parked further down the street, so we had to have come through a different door.

Peter's sedan was parked an equal distance in the opposite direction, close to the entrance to the alley. Caine steered me toward the safety of the car. Suddenly, he froze, then spun around as if he'd heard something.

I turned also, barely in time to see a black-clad figure jump into the Lincoln. It was too small to be Carl so I knew it had to be Alice.

The powerful motor roared to life, then the car screeched away from the curb, gaining speed rapidly. It swerved towards us. Caine jerked me back against the wall, and the car missed us by inches.

After all I had gone through, was Alice going to escape? Peter and the others were still inside the building. Caine might be a terrific martial artist, but I didn't think his talents extended to fighting automobiles, particularly ones that were rapidly accelerating away from us.

Suddenly, the parked sedan jerked forward, pulling out directly into the path of the oncoming Lincoln. I heard Caine yell, "Bobbie, no!" and realized who the driver had to be, but there was nothing I could do except watch.

In almost dreamlike slow motion, I saw the two vehicles collide. The Lincoln plowed into the side of the other car and pushed it along the street in a screech of metal and rubber that only stopped when both vehicles fetched up against the wall of the building.

I snapped out of shocked immobility when I saw Caine running toward the wreck. He vaulted over the back of the Lincoln and pulled the mangled door off the driver's side of the sedan. By the time I got there, he was dragging Bobbie carefully out of the wreckage.

Blood covered Bobbie's face, but I saw his chest rise and fall as Caine laid him on the sidewalk. I went to my knees next to him.

Most of the blood seemed to be from a cut on his forehead. I reminded myself that scalp wounds often bleed profusely, even if they aren't serious.

Caine, meanwhile, totally oblivious to the HIV-tainted blood all over Bobbie's shirt, had his hands pressed flat against the injured man's chest. But he wasn't doing CPR. Instead, his eyes were closed and his face was set in that relaxed-but-concentrated look he gets sometimes. I wanted desperately to take Bobbie in my arms and just hold him, but I dared not disrupt whatever Caine was doing. Taking Bobbie's limp hand in both of mine, I crouched next to him, willing him to be okay.

When Peter touched my shoulder, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Ambulance on the way," he said softly. "Pop? How is he?" Even as he spoke, Peter had shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. It was only then that I realized I was pretty close to naked in the cold wind blowing along the street.

With an effort that was almost visible, Caine pulled himself back into the real world.

"Several ribs are broken. He is bleeding into his lungs, but not badly. I have stopped it as best I can." He looked at me. "There is no immediate danger, but he must have help."

Bobbie opened his eyes, drew a rasping breath and grimaced.

"Did you get her?"

"Yeah," Peter confirmed. Then he added, somewhat shamefaced, "Actually, it was the Ancient who got her. She wasn't badly hurt in the crash."

But I didn't care about all of that. All I cared about was Bobbie. "Don't try to talk now," I cautioned. "Save your strength."

His hand tightened on mine. "What for, Jeremy?" He tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a gurgle. "God, you look a fright!"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

I heard what I hoped was the siren of an approaching ambulance.

Bobbie lifted my hand, indicating with one finger the jade ring I still wore. "Put this on that Quilt panel you promised to make me, okay?"

"Bobbie, you're not gonna --"

"Just do it," he whispered.

I nodded. Pulling the ring off my finger, I returned it to its usual place on Bobbie's hand. "For luck. It worked for me, didn't it?"

He smiled. Then the ambulance was there and EMT's were crawling all over us. Caine drew me to my feet as they placed Bobbie on a stretcher.

"Jeremy, come away. There is ... nothing more you can do."

"I've got to go with them. I can't --"

"Bobbie is being cared for. You would only be in the way."

"But I've got to --"

"No, you do not. Besides, you should not appear at the hospital, dressed as you are. Is it not possible that people will ... misunderstand?"

Actually, the problem was that they might understand all too well. But that got through to me where nothing else could. The ambulance crew didn't know me. In fact, they might not even have realized I wasn't a woman. But if I showed up in the Emergency Room, I'd have a whole lot of explaining to do.

By now the ambulance had pulled away. I let Caine lead me away from the wrecked vehicles and over to the wall, his arm across my shoulder and his body blocking me from the sight of most of the police officers, who were busily trying to sort out the situation.

I started really shaking then, as my conscious mind finally had time to absorb the danger that had passed. The numerous welts and bruises on various parts of my anatomy began clamoring for attention all at once. I guess I was sort of in shock, since about all I could do was stand there and hug Peter's jacket tighter around my bare shoulders.

Caine caught Peter's eye and waved him over.

"Yeah, Pop. What is it?"

"You will ... drive us to Jeremy's home."

"He's got to make a statement."

"He will do that later. Right now, we must leave."

I thought Peter was going to put up an argument, but then he glanced down at my bare legs and the tatters of filmy green fabric that barely hung below the bottom of his jacket.

“I see what you mean, Pop. Come on."

I don't remember too much about the ride home. Somehow, Caine got me undressed and into the shower. I recall washing the makeup off my face. That sort of brought me back to reality; that, and the water beating down on my head and stinging my various cuts and other surface damage.

I found out later on that Caine and Peter had indeed come into the club after me, once they realized I was being kidnapped. By the time they found their way into the back alley, however, Alice's car had already left. Returning to their sedan, they set out to follow us, using the recorder, which, as I had hoped, also doubled as a tracking device.  
Alice had a considerable lead by then, so Peter tried a shortcut once he had a rough idea of the direction we were heading. Unfortunately, there had just been an accident along the route he chose. He had almost managed to maneuver around the resulting traffic jam when Alice discovered and destroyed the bug, leaving him to continue blindly in the direction we had been going, but with little hope of actually finding us. Having heard just enough of the conversation between Alice and me to realize that I was in serious danger, Peter called the precinct for help, as Bobbie tried not to freak out completely. Meanwhile, Caine and the Ancient joined together in one of those meditation trances, hoping to pick up some clue as to my whereabouts.

It was almost a half hour later when they finally picked up my desperate "message". They had been holding their trance for so long that they were both pretty exhausted. All they got was a quick image of a street sign and an alley and Alice's car before the contact dissolved. That at least got them in the right vicinity, but it took time to find the correct alley. When they did, they went in without waiting for back-up, not knowing what might be happening to me. They left Bobbie in the car.

And you know where the story went from there.

I heard the phone as I was getting out of the shower. Caine must have picked it up, because it cut off after two rings. When I stumbled out into the living room transformed once more into my usual more or less masculine self, I found Caine sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Bobbie's altar. He rose at once, levered me down onto the couch, and put a cup of something hot in my hand, refusing to say anything more until I had drunk the whole thing. I watched a thin line of smoke snake its way upwards from the stick of incense Caine had lit on the altar as I let the hot liquid slide down my throat. Then I looked at him.

"How is Bobbie?" I asked, entirely too calmly.

Caine closed his eyes momentarily before he answered. "Peter ... called from the hospital. The doctors can offer little hope."

Even then, I wasn't ready to hear the truth.

"There must be something more you can do," I objected. "Something we haven't tried yet."

"Jeremy, ... I told you when you first came to me about Bobbie, that I cannot cure AIDS."

Yeah, but I thought you were just being modes."

He shook his head.

"Well, dammit, you can't just give up! There must be --"

My voice broke and I turned my head away. I felt Caine's hands on my shoulders. I probably could have turned around right then and cried in his arms, but I knew if I did I'd have to admit to myself that it was hopeless. That wasn't what I wanted, so I resisted the tears, and with them, Caine's offer of comfort. I just sat there staring at the statue of the Buddha and trying to tell myself Bobbie had a chance.

Now, on a few rare occasions, I've picked up images of things that had to have come from Caine's memories. At least that's the only explanation I can think of for the scene that suddenly played itself out in my head.

It was outside, probably in a courtyard at the Temple, judging by what was going on. Caine, in orange robes and beads and without his hair, was talking to a young man who appeared to be Native American. Several grim-looking monks in gray outfits surrounded the boy, attacking him in what was obviously some kind of test or practice match. He fought valiantly but was eventually overwhelmed and held by the others.

The young man looked at Caine, who stood with his hands clasped in front of him, and asked, "When there are so many, what do I do?"

I expected some sort of clever advice or spectacular demonstration of how to escape and emerge victorious from the present situation. Instead, Caine clapped his hands sharply twice to signal the monks to release their captive and said rather sadly, "Against overwhelming odds, you lose."

The scene faded.

"No," I whispered. "I don't want to lose. I don't want Bobbie to lose."

Caine didn't say anything right away. If he realized what had happened and what I was referring to, he offered no explanation for it. Only his words to the Indian boy echoed in my head.

"Jeremy," he said at last, "perhaps to die accomplishing something is not truly to lose. Since none of us may live forever, perhaps it is the ... only way to win, in the end."

I knew then what I had been trying so hard not to know.

"He's really going to die this time, isn't he?" I said at last.

"Yes," was the quiet answer.

"What do you do when you have to watch someone you love die?"

I regretted the words almost as soon as they had left my lips. He'd lost a wife. I didn't know the exact circumstances of her death, but I seemed to recall he'd mentioned a lingering disease. My question would bring back no happy thoughts.

Caine sighed and said simply, "You ... mourn. And you give what love you can, while you can."

"I'm not very good at love."

"It is a ... thing which is learned best by doing."

"I'm even worse at mourning."

"That ... is also a thing learned best by doing," he suggested.

"How can you be so damn calm about it?" I asked, not angrily.

"Jeremy ..." and the hesitation was longer than usual here -- "I ... am not."

I turned around to face him, utterly astounded to see there were tears in his eyes.

Something broke inside and I let myself feel the grief I'd been trying to deny for so long. Sometimes you lose, and there will be no happy endings. There was nothing more I could do for Bobbie, nothing but stand by and watch him die. I didn't know where I would find the courage to do that, but I knew I would have to try.

 

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow description of my Bobbie's losing battle with pneumonia. Otherwise, this would turn into a medical journal. He lived for all of eight days before the end came. He had long ago signed one of those living wills that forbid extreme measures in hopeless cases, and I made sure the hospital personnel abided by his wishes. He was in Intensive Care, but there was no respirator to force air into his unwilling lungs. I stayed with him the entire time. Caine and the Ancient came by often, with their herbal remedies and assorted magical potions. Perhaps they couldn't save him, but they seemed determined to make him as comfortable as possible. To an extent, it worked.

Then a day came when I was sprawled out in the chair next to the bed, thoroughly exhausted and barely more conscious than Bobbie. A slight sound disturbed my half-doze. Forcing my eyes open, I saw that Caine had come into the room and was leaning over Bobbie, smoothing the hair back from his forehead.

"They have found ... proof that Alice was responsible for many other murders," Caine said softly to Bobbie.

At that point, I couldn't have cared less, but Caine wasn't talking to me.

"There is more than enough evidence to convict her," he went on. "My son said to tell you ... that they could not have done it without you and Jeremy."

So big deal, I thought bitterly, watching him from under half-closed eyelids. Why are you bothering him with this?

I might have gotten up and said exactly that, but I caught a glimpse of Bobbie's face and that stopped me. For the first time in days, he was smiling. I could barely hear his whispered reply.

"Maybe -- there was a -- reason -- then?"

"There is always ... a reason," Caine said gently, "although we often do not know what it is. Just as your life has not been in vain, neither is your death in vain. Go in peace and honor, and regret nothing."

Go? I thought in alarm. That didn't sound good at all. I struggled to my feet. "Caine? What are you doing here? What's going --"

He silenced me with a short gesture. I looked at Bobbie. He was still smiling, but I got the feeling he wasn't really seeing me or Caine. His eyes closed slowly, but the smile remained.

Bobbie never regained consciousness after that, although he was technically alive for several more hours. Lo Si arrived shortly before the end came. I saw the monitors flat line.

Several nurses came running into the room when the alarms went off, but they respected the "No Code Blue" order on Bobbie's chart and made no attempt to resuscitate him.

I wrapped my arms around my lost love and laid my head down on his chest. Caine and Lo Si stood on either side of the bed, reciting something in Chinese. The only word I recognized had something to do with light.

I held Bobbie until Caine pried my arms loose, a long time later. Then Caine held me until I could stop crying.

"Jeremy, you must ... come away now," he said at last. "Let us tend to the body."

"Just one more thing," I said raggedly. I slid the carved jade ring off Bobbie's finger. I'd promised to put it on his Quilt panel, hadn't I? I tried to close his half-open, glazing eyes, but it isn't as easy as it looks in the movies. Even so, his face still appeared peaceful, as it had been when he'd died. I settled for kissing his forehead before I let Caine lead me away.

Against overwhelming odds, my Bobbie had lost -- or perhaps he'd won, after all.

 

AGAINST OVERWHELMING ODDS

On the morning of a miserably cold winter day, my life took another unexpected turn. I was on duty at the hospital and had left the MRI suite where I worked in order to get the x-ray folder for our next patient from the file room. On the corner of the worktable, several folders lay waiting for the doctors' perusal. The name on one of them caught my eye and my heart skipped a beat.

I picked up the order form, scanning quickly down to the diagnosis: Pneumocystis carinii, the kind of pneumonia that typically strikes people who are HIV+. And just in case there was any doubt, a bright pink sticker proclaimed: BLOOD/BODY FLUIDS PRECAUTIONS.

I looked at the name again, hoping I had made a mistake. It didn't have to be my Bobbie. There must be a thousand Robert Lings in this country, and several of them here in Chinatown alone. My eye skipped over to the date of birth and my soul froze. No, it could still be coincidence. But I had to find out. I noted the room number, then picked up the folder I had come for and went back to MRI.

"Kevin, I'm taking my break now, okay?" I said to my supervisor.

"No problem, Jeremy." He glanced over at me and must have seen how upset I was, even though I thought I was hiding it. "Take as long as you need," he added.

As I often tell people, Kevin's a real good guy. I owe him a lot and I know it.

With my heart in my mouth, I walked into the room and over to the bed. No, there had been no mistake. This was my Bobbie, the gorgeous young man I had loved and lost, mostly due to my own jealous possessiveness, so many years ago.

He seemed to be asleep, his wasted frame swallowed up in the expanse of white linen. Like most Chinese, he'd never been a big man. Slender, delicate, and beautiful, Bobbie had been the darling of the gay crowd in Provincetown in his younger days. Even now, more than ten years older, that ethereal beauty hadn't entirely deserted him. But I'd seen the sunken cheeks and dark-rimmed eyes, the prominent facial bones and pale skin, on too many of my other friends who had died this way. The oxygen cannula running under his nose and the IV dripping into his arm didn't inspire confidence and hope either, but only bore silent witness to his present struggle with pneumonia.

I'd had an AIDS test not long ago and had come out negative, so I knew I was probably okay. But that's purely the luck of the draw. It could just as easily have been me in that bed instead of Bobbie. For all too many years I had been careless. We all were, back then. No one had heard of AIDS. All we knew was that the sexual revolution had finally arrived and we were going to make the best of it. But, as usual, the shadow followed hard on the heels of the light. Far too many erstwhile flower children are now pushing up the flowers instead of wearing them in their hair. And it doesn't look as if it's going to stop anytime soon.

Trying to keep my hand from shaking, I brushed the hair back off Bobbie's forehead, leaned down, and kissed him.

He opened those beautiful black eyes, coughed a few times, then stared at me blearily.

"Hi, kiddo," I said.

He blinked and looked at me again as recognition dawned.

"Jeremy?"

"Live and in person," I replied.

How can I tell you where our conversation went from there? It was difficult for Bobbie to talk at all, since it started him coughing. I couldn't stay long, because I knew Kevin would be needing my help with a difficult patient we had coming, despite what he had said. I left Bobbie with another kiss and a promise to come back again later.

He managed a smile and a tentative wave as I left the room, while I choked back the tears I had no time to shed just then.

But when my shift ended that afternoon, Bobbie's room wasn't my first stop. Instead, I left County General and went to look for Caine. Even though we'd spent some time together a few years ago and I'd just recently run across him again, I don't exactly hang out with him. He has his life and I have mine. But sometimes I'd see him at the hospital, and we got together now and then.

As I hurried anxiously up the stairs to his rooftop apartment, I tried to convince myself that there was hope. I'd heard stories about some of the cures Caine had effected and I knew how he'd fixed me up a couple of times while we had traveled across the country together, so I figured there might be something he could do.

I wasn't even sure he'd be home, since he doesn't have a phone, but I found him sitting on that platform in his workroom, a large leather-bound book open in his lap. He was already looking in my direction when I came in the door.

"You are ... upset?" It wasn't really a question, despite the intonation.

"Yeah, you might say that."

"What is wrong?"

Hitching myself up on the edge of the platform next to him, I explained about Bobbie.

He sighed and closed his eyes briefly, then put one hand on my shoulder. "I cannot cure AIDS, Jeremy."

Maybe he was just saying that because he didn't want me to get my hopes up too high. "But surely you can do something?" I persisted.

"Perhaps. We must go and ... talk to him."

But we hadn't even gotten off the platform when Caine's son came barging through the doorway. "Hi, Pop," he began. "Listen, I've got to talk to you about ... uh, hello, Jeremy. What are you doing here?"

I didn't know Peter too well at this time, but he hadn't exactly taken to me. I think it made him uncomfortable to see his father with a gay guy, although I assure you there was absolutely nothing for him to worry about. (Caine was obviously straight. I don't come on to straight guys, no matter how I may feel about them. But it took Peter a long time to get that through his head.)

Be that as it may, he didn't much like me. Looking at it from the other direction, how did I feel about Peter? If I said envy, would you understand? The boy had Caine's heart, in a way I never could.

Anyway, I figured he wanted to talk to his father privately. "I can wait outside," I offered, trying to be helpful.

"No," Peter said. "Actually, I was looking for you. I just figured Pop ... uh ... Dad would be able to help me get up with you."

Peter Caine looking for me? Will wonders never cease?

"What ... is the problem?" Caine asked.

The boy glanced at me, glanced at his father, then kind of looked at neither of us. "Uh -- I -- I'm not sure -- I --"

Caine tipped his head to one side as he suggested, "Perhaps ... I ... should wait outside?"

"No." Peter propped himself against the edge of a table, almost knocking a tray of dried mushrooms onto the floor in the process. He never did meet my eyes as he explained, "I need some advice. About a murder case."

"From me?"

"Yeah. I figured you might know ... something about some of the... things that are involved."

Oh, great! Something bothered the kid so much that he was starting to talk like his father. This couldn't be good.

"Peter," Caine suggested with a slight smile, "it would help if you could be ... less cryptic?"

"Yeah. Okay." Taking a deep breath, he started over. "There have been three very nasty murders in the last couple of months and I think I'm seeing a pattern here. They seem to be connected to snuff films ..." he looked directly at me this time -- "and the victims have all been drag queens." His eyes flickered over to his father. "Whoever's behind all this seems to have a preference for certain ethnic types, since they were all Chinese. In addition to the coroner's reports, I saw one of the films, and one of the bodies."

His voice was actually shaking now. If a cop was shocked, it must have been pretty bad.

"You -- uh -- don't want to know what they did to these guys before they died," he went on, carefully inspecting the brick floor in front of his feet.

But I could fairly well tell at least a part of what they'd done from the expression on his face. It was the same look men get when you mention the name of John Wayne Bobbitt -- kind of like they want to grab their crotch just to make sure everything's still there.

Caine broke the uncomfortable silence. "Why do you think Jeremy could ... help you with this?"

Peter was on firmer ground here.

"Well, he's into the gay scene. Maybe he'd know about the victims, or where they'd be likely to hang out, or something like that? No one seems too anxious to talk to the law."

"Can you blame them? The cops have seldom been on our side. There are still states where it's illegal just to be gay, for pity's sake!"

Caine looked at me, raising one eyebrow slightly at my vehemence. Well, okay. Maybe I was overreacting a little. I backed off.

"Sorry, Peter. Look, I'll be glad to do what I can, but I need to know more about this. First off, what makes you so sure your victims are drag queens?"

"They're dressed in women's clothes when we find them, and also in the one movie I've seen. And I've been able to get enough info out of their friends to know that this is nothing unusual for them."

"Okay. But there are lots of transvestites, and even some professional female impersonators, who're just as straight as you are."

"I just assumed ..." His voice trailed off. "Okay, I shouldn't assume," he finished, somewhat sheepishly.

Now that I'd made my point, I didn't belabor it.

"Well, there's one club in town that caters to cross-dressers, gay, straight, or otherwise," I suggested.

Now it was his turn to surprise me by saying, "Yeah, I know that."

"Oh?"

"We have ... been there," Caine explained.

"And we're not too interested in going again," Peter interjected vehemently. "Are we, Pop?"

Caine shrugged. Peter looked uncomfortable again. In fact, I do believe he might have been blushing. By now I was real curious about what they'd been up to at that particular place, but I decided this would not be the best time to ask.

"So what can I do that you can't do, Peter?" I inquired.

"Talk to people. Listen for rumors. Try to get me a handle on what's happening and who's behind it."

I nodded, considering his request rather half-heartedly. I really wasn't all that much involved with the gay community these days. Since I'd come here several years ago, I'd been too busy with other things, like x-ray school and my new job, to spend much time hanging out in bars. And just now I had other more pressing things on my mind, things like Bobbie.

Peter must have seen my hesitation. "If I can't get a lead on this, the department will brush the whole thing under the rug, the way they did with the previous victims. Then, sooner or later, we'll find another mutilated body. I don't want that to happen."

"Why not? It's just a bunch of perverts and freaks who are being offed. Why should you care?" I was deliberately baiting him. I'm good at that. But I had my reasons.

He stood up abruptly and started for the door. "All right! If you don't give a damn about helping your own people, then I guess I'm wasting my time. Forget it!"

"Peter." Caine spoke softly, as always, but it was enough to stop his son's headlong flight from the room. "You must learn to listen to the words which lie ... beneath the words spoken aloud. Jeremy ... did not say he would not help. He merely wishes to know why you are pursuing this investigation ... when most of your superiors would probably agree with the remark he just made."

Damn! You'd think I'd be used to the way Caine does that, but it never fails to take me by surprise. He claims he can't read minds, but I've got my doubts.

Be that as it may, I could almost see Peter's feathers unruffle at his father's words.

"That true, Jeremy?" he asked, still standing in the doorway.

"Yeah," I admitted. By now I was feeling rather sorry I had gotten him so riled up. Maybe I'm too suspicious, where cops are concerned. I spread my hands in a mollifying gesture. "Look, Peter, I'll do what I can to help, okay? I can't guarantee I'll find out anything useful, but I'll keep my ears open. I don't want to see anyone else killed, even if they are --" and I smiled enough to take the sting out of my words -- "only drag queens."

"Okay, great." He ran one hand nervously through his already disarranged dark hair. "I've got to get back to the precinct. You know where to find me, if you need me."

I nodded. He was gone as quickly as he'd come, leaving Caine and me to proceed at a more leisurely pace to the hospital to see Bobbie. Caine insisted on walking, even though he still limped slightly from that bullet wound he'd gotten a little over a month ago now. 

Bobbie wasn't exactly overjoyed with the visitor I brought him, especially when I explained why he was there.

"Oh come on, Jeremy. Herbs to cure AIDS? You've got to be kidding. I've already tried everything the doctors have available."

"So why not try this? It couldn't hurt," I suggested.

Bobbie glared at me.

"I ... do not think I can cure you," Caine said carefully, "but I can perhaps ... help ... a little."

Bobbie really looked at him then, taking in the long hair, dark blue Chinese-type shirt, and not very Chinese-type face.

"Are you for real?"

Caine looked down at himself, as if he were checking to make sure. "I ... believe so, yes."

"What the hell are you anyway?" Bobbie demanded.

"I am a Shaolin priest," the other man said quietly.

"No."

Caine shrugged.

Bobbie grabbed Caine's left wrist and pushed his sleeve up far enough to see part of the dragon symbol on his arm.

"Shit, you're serious," he said incredulously. Then he started to cough.

"I ... am usually serious," Caine replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed and resting both hands lightly on Bobbie's chest.

Whatever he did, it worked. The coughing fit subsided. Bobbie sank back against his pillows, still short of breath. He readjusted the oxygen cannula under his nose.

"All I want is to live until February 21. After that, it doesn't matter," he said weakly.

Caine asked the question before I could. "What happens on ... that date?"

"We'll have a display of the AIDS Quilt at the Chinatown Community Center. You do know what the Quilt is, don't you?"

"I have ... heard of it."

"But you've never seen it, right?"

When Caine shook his head, Bobbie went on. "Neither have most of the people in our community. Chinatown's pretty old-fashioned about this kind of stuff, but it's time they started to learn. Past time, actually, now that AIDS has spread into the general population, especially among the young folks. The Quilt can be a powerful tool for education. It has quite an impact on people --"

He'd been talking too long. Another fit of coughing seized him. As Caine touched him again and worked his magic, I sat on the other side of the bed and took Bobbie's hand.

"Okay, it's important and all that," I said as his coughing slackened off. "But why do you care so much about this one particular display? I should think you'd have other things to worry about at this point."

"You don't understand," he replied with a hint of desperation in his cracking voice. "It was my idea to bring the Quilt here. I organized the committee and everything. We've been working on making this happen for months, and it's finally set up. I want to see it before I die."

"You're not going to die," I protested.

"Come off it, Jeremy. I've got AIDS. Once it reaches this stage, there's no other way it ends except in death."

"Is not that how all life ends?" Caine interjected mildly.

"That's easy for you to say, priest. You're not dying."

Caine shrugged again and said mildly, "We are all ... dying."

Bobbie glared at him. "Look, if you can do anything to help me, fine. If not, spare me the cliches. Okay?"

"I will do ... what I can," Caine said, taking no notice of the insult.

"I just want to get well enough to go home for awhile. I'm so sick of hospitals."

"Is there anyone at home to care for you?" Caine inquired. "Family?"

Bobbie looked away, so I explained quickly, "His family disowned him years ago for being gay. Like Chinatown, they're -- kind of old-fashioned."

"Yeah. That's one way to put it," Bobbie interjected. "As long as I pretended otherwise, they were happy to go along. But when I came right out and told them -- well, Jeremy was there. He knows how it was."

Yeah, I knew. But most of the screaming had been in Chinese, so I hadn't gotten any more than an overall impression of what was being said. Up until that night, they'd all been pretty nice to me too. Oh well.

"Where are you living now?" I asked.

He mentioned an address unfamiliar to me. I glanced a question at Caine. "Chinatown, not far from the hospital," he offered.

Bobbie nodded in confirmation. A thought occurred to me, but I wasn't sure I should even put it into words. I decided to take the chance.

"Tell you what. You get well enough to go home and I'll move in with you for a while and kind of look out for you. How does that sound?"

Bobbie studied my carefully-nonchalant face. "Haven't you got your own place?"

"Nothing but a rented room. I've been wanting to live closer to where I work anyway. You'd be doing me a favor."

I could see that he still wasn't too sure about my proposal. Considering all the shit that had gone down between us when we'd broken up years ago, I didn't exactly blame him. But things were different now. Or at least I hoped they could be.

"Let me think about it, okay?"

"First, you must get better," Caine said, as if it had been decided.

Bobbie actually smiled.

 

A week later, he was able to go home from the hospital. Perhaps due to Caine's ministrations, the pneumonia had eased off and he felt strong enough to manage more or less on his own, although the pneumonia had damaged his lungs to the point where he was constantly short of breath. He was on oxygen for a lot of the time also. Much to my delight, he accepted my offer to move in.

Bobbie had one of the downstairs apartments in a row of two-story brick buildings running along the side of a small park. It was a few blocks from the really busy section of Chinatown, so things were relatively quiet. On nice days, we could look out the front windows and see children playing in the park. There was even a concrete pool, but it had no water at this time of year. It would probably be rather pretty come spring.

The building was old, with large, high-ceilinged rooms, built in a day when space wasn't at such a premium and heating costs weren't a major consideration. I took over the spare bedroom. Compared to the small furnished room I'd been living in, this was spaciousness to the point of luxury.

Having someone else to share the rent was a big help for Bobbie, who had already used up most of his savings for medical expenses. He'd sold his life insurance too, as many AIDS patients do. That's become a thriving business these days, although something about it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I tried to play it very cool at first. I was the compassionate nurse and helpful housekeeper, tending to all the shopping and the more strenuous tasks while letting Bobbie do whatever he felt strong enough to attempt, which wasn't much.

Then came the night when I polished the Buddha.

Like many Chinese, Bobbie had this sort of altar or shrine-like thing. The specific items found on such family altars might vary considerably, but it was a fairly common feature of many oriental homes. Caine had one, in that room he generally used for meditation. Bobbie's had a statue of the Buddha, but even that wasn't mandatory. As a general thing, the Chinese seem to be more easy-going about religion than most Westerners. Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, and leftover bits and pieces of more ancient beliefs coexist in a sort of eclectic stew. People feel pretty free to borrow from these various systems, without considering them to be mutually exclusive. Of course, there's also a generous helping of ignorance and just plain old superstition stirred into the mix, but isn't that the case everywhere?

At any rate, Bobbie had never been overly religious, but he'd always had one of these little altars, so I wasn't surprised to find one in the living room of my new quarters. What did surprise me was that this one appeared sadly neglected. A layer of dust covered everything. No fresh flowers filled the vases and the little brass pot had no sticks of incense poking up at odd angles. Even the candles were dusty, which indicated how long it had been since they had been lit. Well, that was understandable. Bobbie had been in the hospital for the last couple of weeks, after all.

I decided it was high time to atone for my roommate's neglect. I came home from work one day with a bunch of carnations from a street vendor and set about making things right. I dusted everything off and filled the two small vases with red and white flowers.

I was in the process of applying wood polish to the Buddha when Bobbie came out of his bedroom.

"Jeremy, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

I had expected a somewhat more positive comment on my handiwork, but maybe he was just in a bad mood after his nap.

"Cleaning this stuff up," I replied carefully, still polishing. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Yeah. This is none of your business."

"Bobbie --"

"Damn it, Jeremy, I didn't ask you to touch my things!"

I set the Buddha gently back in his place on the altar before answering. "It needed cleaning up."

"Yeah. And I suppose the next thing I know you'll be lighting incense too, huh?"

"Well, the thought had crossed my mind," I admitted. "The altar looked pretty neglected."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe there's a reason for that? That maybe I don't care about all this nonsense anymore?"

"Don't say that."

"Why not? What good has it ever done me? I'm still going to die. Why offer flowers and incense to someone who's been dead for over two thousand years? What does it matter?"

"You always told me it was the ideas that mattered, not the person," I objected, thoroughly taken aback by his vehemence.

"None of it matters, damn it! None of it! Do you hear me?"

So saying, Bobbie swept everything off the altar with one hand. Flowers went flying as the vases hit the bare wood of the floor. One vase broke, scattering ceramic bits of blue and white halfway across the room. My lovingly-polished Buddha ended up face down in a puddle of water.

Bobbie stomped back into his room and slammed the door, leaving me staring after him in shock.

I rescued the Buddha and returned him once again to his place. Ignoring the rest of the mess, I went over to Bobbie's door. I could hear him crying. That made up my mind as to what to do next. I opened the door, went into the room and sat down next to him on the bed.

He lay facing the wall, curled up into a ball and sobbing. Not sure what his reaction might be, I nevertheless put my hands on his shoulders and rubbed them gently.

"Okay. What was that all about?" I asked.

For the second time that night, Bobbie took me completely by surprise. He turned around into my arms, clinging to my shirt and crying against my chest.

"It's just so fucking hopeless, Jeremy," he said between sobs. "I'm scared out of my mind. I don't want to die, especially like this, without any reason."

What could I say to that? Each time I had tried to cheer him up with encouraging words, he had ignored me. Words obviously wouldn't do it. I just laid back on the bed, holding him next to me until his crying stopped. Finally, he gave a huge sigh and snuggled closer into my arms.

"It's been ages since anyone so much as touched me," he said at last. "In the hospital, they wear gloves all the time and act as if I'm a one-man plague epidemic. I really can't blame them. I guess I am, in a way, and they've got to be careful."

"Bobbie, my love, I'll never be afraid to touch you," I whispered, kissing the top of his head.

"You mean that? Really?"

"Yeah. I mean it."

Well, I suppose you can guess where we went from there, can't you?

There are only a few ways you can get AIDS, and sex, gay or straight, is one of them. But what could I do? Bobbie was the man I had loved the most in all my life. I couldn't let him think I would no longer make love to him.

Of course, some things carry a greater risk than others, so Bobbie and I were very careful about what we did. But, condoms notwithstanding, there is not now, and has never been, such a thing as truly safe sex, even before AIDS. And that's especially true for women, who have historically died in vast numbers giving birth to children. Think about it.

How much risk is acceptable to you, folks? At what point will you stop driving your car because there's a very real possibility that you could get into an accident? When do you stop taking a shower because you might slip and fall in the tub? Where is the line between being reasonably prudent and being foolhardy? I guess that's something we all have to decide for ourselves.

But let's look at it from another angle. Think of whatever it is that's your own personal favorite sexual activity. No, don't tell me what it is. That doesn't matter. Now bring to mind the one person in all the world you would most like to do it with. Imagine that one person lying naked on your bed, ready, willing, and able to make your fondest wishes come true.

Got the picture? Great. Think about it for a while. Dwell on how terrific it would be, until you're so turned on you can hardly stand it.

Now imagine that dream partner is HIV+. What would you do next? Not what should you do, but what would you do?

See what I mean? The choice isn't all that easy sometimes, is it?

Did I love Bobbie? I mean, really love him? Or was it just memories of another day, another time, when I was -- well, younger, if not exactly young. And Bobbie was beautiful and carefree, and we were gay and out and proud.

I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even capable of love. It never seems to work out, at any rate. To me, love doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry. And it doesn't mean forever. It means something even worse: it means every day, and that scares the shit out of me. I've never been very good at every day. But, for Bobbie, I would have been willing to give it a try.

 

What with my job and taking care of Bobbie, I didn't have much time during the next few weeks to try to dig up clues for Peter. Oh yes, I did go to that cross-dressers' club a couple of times and talked to some folks, but it wasn't my usual hangout and I didn't know many people. I heard a few things: rumors, names mentioned in passing, that sort of stuff, but nothing real definite. Nevertheless, I dutifully passed each tidbit on to Peter, hoping he could make something of it.

All the victims had apparently been adequate but not overly elaborate drag queens. None of them were professional female impersonators, and they were all on the far side of thirty. Coupled with the fact that they were Chinese, Peter thought this pointed in the direction of movies slanted toward a rather specific audience. Of course, the victims might also have simply been the only ones unfortunate, or desperate, enough to have been lured into the murderer's clutches, perhaps by the promise of payment. Assuming they had even been asked ahead of time about appearing in a movie, it was a pretty sure bet they hadn't realized the exact nature of this movie until it was already too late.

Every day or two, Caine or Lo Si would drop by to check on Bobbie. (You know Lo Si, don't you? Sure you do. If you know Caine, you must know the Ancient also.) I couldn't tell you exactly what they did or what was in the stuff they brought him to drink. All I know is that it seemed to be working. Maybe he wasn't getting a lot better, but at least he wasn't getting any worse. That was a victory of sorts.

Throughout most of this time, I felt a sense of emotional deadness. On the surface, I had convinced myself that Bobbie wouldn't die. Caine would work a miracle and my long lost lover and I would live happily ever after. But somewhere deep down, a part of me knew better and closed my feelings off. I stumbled through those precious days like a determinedly cheerful zombie. I did my job, but without the previous sense of enthusiasm that had made it interesting to me. I went home to Bobbie, and tried to tell myself we were happy and all was well.

But an invisible demon sat on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Fool! Stupid blind fool!" And his message was all the more unnerving because I could not see him, and therefore could not recognize him for what he was.

It was almost as if part of me was wrapped in cotton, insulated against the world. If I couldn't care, then I wouldn't hurt when Bobbie died. I was distancing myself from everything. Outwardly, I continued to function. But inside, something was perpetually on hold, braced against a shock I couldn't even admit had to come.

So I was loving and sweet to Bobbie, and it was not an act. I truly did care. How could I not? But somewhere inside, the cotton was wrapped tightly around my heart, so tightly that I never even felt the blood oozing out.

And then it came time for the Quilt to be put on display at the Community Center. Bobbie was in reasonably good shape. He had even been able to attend some of the committee meetings, but he tired easily. When the big day arrived, he wasn't up to helping with the physical work of unloading the Quilt panels and setting up the space, but after resting all morning, he felt strong enough to attend the opening ceremony that afternoon. I insisted he go in his wheelchair, although he didn't want to.

I was pushing him up the access ramp at the side door of the Center when Caine and Lo Si appeared unexpectedly alongside us. Caine took the wheelchair and maneuvered it deftly up the ramp and into the building with the practiced ease of a trained nurse, while the Ancient handed Bobbie another one of his bottled potions to drink.

"We didn't expect to see you two here," Bobbie said, speaking for both of us.

"We would not miss it for the world," Lo Si replied in his strangely-accented English.

We'd barely gotten inside when Peter arrived, accompanied by an attractive dark-haired young woman that he introduced as his partner, Detective Mary Margaret Skalany. If I hadn't expected Caine and the Ancient, I had certainly not expected Peter. Although I didn't mean to be rude, I'm afraid I was too distracted by my concern ever Bobbie's well-being to do much more than mumble, "Pleased to meet you," in the general direction of Peter's partner as we all moved into the main room with the rest of the crowd.

For those of you who may not know, the AIDS Memorial Quilt isn't really a quilt at all. It's made up of separate sections of fabric consisting of eight individual panels sewn together. Each section measures twelve feet by twelve feet and usually contains panels from the same region of the country. The entire thing is too large now to be routinely displayed in one place, since it measures almost fifteen city blocks, but bits and pieces of it get sent to many locations.

Altogether, we had nine of these 12 x 12 sections laid out on the floor, folded up. The visitors filed into the room, crowding along the walls to watch the opening ceremony. In utter silence, a group of white-clad monitors went to each section in turn, walked around it into their prescribed positions, took hold of the corners, unfolded the fabric, lifted it up high, then laid it down on the floor. When all the sections had been thus spread out, a woman went up on stage and took the microphone. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention as she welcomed everyone and explained that they would be reading aloud the names of people who had died of AIDS during the entire time of the display. I was too busy looking around the room.

After the welcome speech was over, I pushed Bobbie slowly around as we examined the various fabric panels. Perhaps it was not surprising that the hall was hushed and very quiet, despite the crowd. Now and then, someone would recognize Bobbie, come over and say a few words or give him a hug. Caine and Lo Si trailed along slightly behind us, with Peter and his partner not far away. There was something about the entire thing that discouraged casual conversation. People stood silently reading names and staring at the decorated panels.

In many ways, this is the Vietnam Wall of the gay community. (And there are actually more names now on the Quilt than on the Wall.) Visitors bring flowers or other tokens to leave on the panels of lost friends or relatives. Boxes of tissues are set in strategic locations.

Just looking at the Quilt is an awesome and sobering experience.

We have made our gravestones of a more lasting substance than granite or marble. We have made them of fabric and love and simple mementos, and set them before the world, to bear witness to the enormity of our loss and the humanity of our lost.

What else could we do?

 

As Bobbie and I went from panel to panel, I tried hard not to cry, not to feel. But it was impossible.

I couldn't acknowledge the truth: that my Bobbie would someday soon be nothing but a name on a piece of fabric. I couldn't look that fact square in the face then.

But the tears ran down my cheeks even so, and I stopped to take a tissue from one of the boxes, wiping my nose and cleaning the moisture off my glasses.

"Give me one too," Bobbie requested.

I held the box out to my lover, staying carefully behind the wheelchair so he couldn't see my face.

Bobbie blew his nose, then turned to look at me and asked calmly, "Will you make a panel for me when I'm dead?"

"Don't talk like that. You're doing fine."

"Jeremy, dammit, face the facts!" he hissed.

"I'll make one if you want me to," I replied grudgingly.

"I do."

"Then I will. I promise."

Shortly after that, I insisted we leave, since Bobbie seemed to be tiring. Caine caught up to us at the exit.

"I ... will help you get home, if you wish," he offered.

"Thanks. My car's parked around the corner. I'll go get it, if you'll stay here with Bobbie."

Caine nodded.

"By the way, where's the Ancient?" I asked as I dug under my coat and searched through my hip pocket for my car keys.

Caine inclined his head in the direction of the stage, where Lo Si was just now taking his place at the podium. "He has ... volunteered to read some of the names."

That old guy never fails to surprise me.

 

We had just about gotten Bobbie settled in the back seat of my car and stowed his wheelchair in the trunk when Peter came hurrying out of the building.

"Hold on a minute. I've got to talk to you," he said.

"We are taking Bobbie home," his father replied, as he folded himself into the front seat. "Meet us there, if you wish to talk."

"But Pop --"

"A cold and windy street corner is not the place for an important discussion, my son."

"How'd you know it was important?"

Caine shrugged, as if the answer should be obvious.

Peter raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, I give up. Give me a minute to tell Skalany I'm leaving and then I'll follow you there."

Caine nodded shortly and rolled the window up.

 

"I think we have a suspect," Peter began, following us up the half dozen steps that led to the front door. When Bobbie's knees gave out as he struggled out of the car, Caine had simply lifted him and carried him up the stairs, while I went ahead to unlock the door. Unlike some folks around a person with AIDS, Caine had never hesitated to touch Bobbie, when necessary.

Caine turned and indicated the open trunk of my car with a brief lift of his chin. "The wheelchair, Peter."

"Huh? Oh. Okay, Pop. I'll get it."

 

"Trouble is," Peter went on, once we were all settled in the living room, "right now it's nothing but rumors. I've got no hard evidence, and certainly nothing to warrant an arrest."

"So what have you got?" I asked.

"Hints that a drag queen who goes by the name of Alice Silber is somehow involved with the killings. She's been known to hang out at that club, and she's been seen with the victims."

I nodded. I had heard the name once or twice myself. I was mildly surprised that Peter had used the feminine pronoun when referring to his suspect. Most straight folks kind of fumble around, trying to figure out if they should use "he" or "she" for a man in drag.

"If these rumors are loud enough that you've heard them," I pointed out, "I'll lay odds she's finding it pretty tough to recruit new prospects about now."

"If she recruits them at all," Bobbie put in. "It's quite possible the victims are simply kidnapped, isn't it?"

"For all we know, yeah. But this is the only lead I've got."

Bobbie frowned. "Well, it doesn't sound like much. You need someone to come forward who's actually been approached."

"Can you not send in an ... undercover agent?" Caine suggested.

That sounded good to me. "Maybe Alice could be tricked into saying or doing something that would give you a definite lead? Especially if you recorded what went on?"

"Well, yeah."

We were all staring at Peter now. His father had even raised one eyebrow slightly, as if he were asking a question.

"Hey, wait a minute! Don't look at me that way! I couldn't --"

"Why not?" Bobbie asked. "You've got kind of a pretty face. With the right makeup -- "

"No way! No! Not!"

"Nah, Bobbie," I said, breaking up the gag. "He'd never be convincing. Look at how red his face is getting just from thinking about it."

"I guess you've got a point there. He'd never be able to carry it off."

"You guys have been putting me on, right?" Peter said.

He calmed down enough to smile as Bobbie and I nodded in unison. "Okay, all kidding aside, we still haven't gotten past square one. I have no way to confirm my suspicions. The precinct's not exactly overflowing with guys qualified to pose convincingly as female impersonators, even if the powers that be were willing to give this case high priority, which they're not."

I caught Bobbie's eye. He gave a fractional nod of his head.

"Uh --" I began, wondering if I would regret this later on, "that's not a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell you what, Pete: you go get a bugging device and meet us back here in a few hours. I think I can find you a volunteer to act as bait on this little fishing expedition, as long as it doesn't have to be a cop."

"I was hoping you'd know somebody."

"Yeah. You just get lost for a while and let me work on this, okay?"

"Right. I'll go see if I can wangle Blake into getting me the electronics, kind of off the record, you know?"

I guess it would have to be off the record, if a civilian was going to be involved.

That got Peter out of our hair. Now what was I going to do about Caine? He was parked comfortably on the couch and showed no signs of wanting to move.

"Don't you have somewhere you'd like to go for a while?" I asked, hoping he'd take the hint.

He shook his head and smiled slightly. "I have seen ... female impersonators ... and I wish to know how it is done."

"How'd you know what we've got planned?"

"Is it not ..." He shrugged and spread his hands ... "obvious?"

Okay, so he stayed and watched. I'm not above indulging someone's curiosity, if it comes from a genuine interest.

It took Bobbie almost three hours to make me into a woman, but the results were worth it. Now, I don't make a habit of this, but I've been in drag a couple of times before, in my younger days, so I know how it's done. Of course, it's harder at my age, but at least I'm not very tall and I'm reasonably slender. That helps. My bifocals are in fairly unisex frames, which also helps. I'd be entirely unable to function without them.

Contrary to popular belief, not all of the men who dress up as women actually want to be women. As I had once pointed out to Peter, quite a few transvestites aren't even gay. Of course, there are also folks who truly would prefer to be of the opposite sex. I'm not one of them, and neither was Bobbie.

By now I'll bet you've got my Bobbie pegged as a hairdresser or fashion designer or some other equally swishy occupation. Sorry, but when he was well enough to work, he was a painter. You're probably thinking artist, right? Easel and palette, maybe a French beret? Nay. Bobbie painted houses for a living. He was damn good at it too.

But he was also damn good at clothes and makeup. He trimmed and styled my hair, which was fortunately rather long at the time, and dyed it black, then fixed me up to look about half oriental, since this Silber person seemed to have a preference for ethnic types. The shape of my face was wrong to be full Chinese, but by the time Bobbie was done with me, I could have passed for someone with mixed blood. Add to that one of those Chinese dresses with a slit up the side in a lovely shade of pale green, plus a long-sleeved lacy white sweater, and the illusion was pretty good.

Of course, I was way too old to look like the gorgeous young thing I used to be, but I made a reasonably attractive older woman. Since all of the other victims had been a bit overage, I figured it would work all right. Unless you have just the right kind of face and body, you're better off not trying to look too glamorous anyway. Bobbie, on the other hand, truly did have the delicate features and slender body that looked great in drag. But he wasn't in any condition to do what I intended to do.

Meanwhile, Caine seemed to find the entire process quite fascinating. He kept unobtrusively out of Bobbie's way, but I could see that he was watching us intently. When he finally spoke up, I was perched on the edge of the bed as Bobbie sat in his wheelchair applying polish to my fake nails.

"You will need ... a name."

"Got any suggestions?"

"I think ... Jade Cheng would suit you."

I tried it on for size. "Jade Cheng. Yeah. I like it."

The doorbell rang. Caine rose to his feet. "That is probably my son. I will answer it. We would not want you to ... ruin your fingernails, would we?"

He was in the other room before I could figure out if he'd been making a joke.

 

Bobbie took one last look to check me over. Satisfied, he nodded. I was ready to get up and go inside when he stopped me with a hand on my arm. "I want you to wear my grandmother's ring tonight. For luck."

For as long as I'd known him, Bobbie had worn that ring on his right middle finger. It was jade; just a narrow band with intertwined dragons intricately carved into its surface. I'd never seen him take it off, but now he was twisting at it, trying to squeeze it over his knuckle.

"You'll hurt yourself," I cautioned.

"No, it's okay. I've lost a lot of weight. It'll come off."

It did, and he held it out to me.

"Bobbie, I can't. What if I lose it or something?"

"Take it, damn it!" he said vehemently. "I want you to."

"Okay, okay. Don't get all bent out of shape." Still reluctant, I picked up the ring. The only one of my fingers it would fit was the one where a wedding band was supposed to go. I held out my hand, fingers spread the way a woman does when she examines her fingernails. Combined with my fake red nails, the effect was rather nice. But I felt awfully uncomfortable wearing Bobbie's only family heirloom.

"Bobbie, I really don't want --"

"Shush. Come on. It's time to greet our guests."

"Guests? It's only Peter."

"I thought I heard the Ancient's voice too. Didn't you?"

Truth to tell, I hadn't been listening. But it wouldn't surprise me. Lo Si had Caine's habit of appearing unexpectedly when something was going on.

Bobbie insisted on getting out of the wheelchair. I strolled into the living room on his arm.

Peter's mouth dropped open and didn't close again for the next couple of minutes. At least that meant he kept quiet.

Bobbie had been right about Lo Si. The old man stood just inside the door. Fixing my gaze on the Ancient, I inclined my head in what I hoped was a demure gesture of respect and smiled, looking at him from under my mascara eyelashes.

He came over and gave me a severely appraising inspection from all angles before finally saying, "Jeremy, that is bloody marvelous."

"Xie-xie," I replied graciously, using my little bit of Chinese to thank him. Then I dropped the act, reverting to my normal tone of voice. "Glad you like it."

Lo Si just smiled. From the gleam in his eyes, I almost thought he'd have asked me out on a date, if he hadn't known what I really was.

Peter finally closed his mouth, but only long enough to open it again. "I don't believe this," he said.

"You ought to try it sometime," I told him. "Gives you a whole new perspective on being a man." Although I had directed that remark to Peter, it was his father who answered.

"I ... may," Caine said thoughtfully. Not exactly what I expected. But then, when does he ever say what you expect him to?

"Pop!" Peter protested.

Caine held up his hand to forestall any further comments from that direction. "Jeremy, are you sure you can do this well enough to fool everyone? To be a woman is ... more ... than just clothing and makeup."

He was all too right about that, as any good drag queen knows. You have to have the gestures, the mannerisms, the movements, the voice, and all those other things that society has chosen as gender cues. If you overdid it, you would be too obvious. But if you couldn't do it, you wouldn't fool anyone, despite the best makeup in the world and the most stunning outfit. It's amazing how very much of gender is nothing but a role, a costume, a part one chooses to play.

"Yeah," Peter said grudgingly. "If you blow it, Alice will know someone's on to her."

I walked over to where he sat perched on the edge of a table. Running a carefully manicured red fingernail along the edge of his jaw, I said in my best strong-and-competent-woman voice, "Don't worry about me, baby. I'll make out just fine."

He jumped up from the table and retreated backwards in red-faced confusion. "Jeez, Jeremy, don't do that, huh?"

I laughed daintily.

"So what did you come up with for a bug?" Bobbie asked, bringing us back to the business at hand.

Peter pulled a little round black thing out of his pocket. "This will pick up everything that's said and transmit it to the recorder in the car." He glanced at his father and the Ancient. "I borrowed one of the unmarked sedans from the precinct, since my car is pretty small and I figured you two would insist on coming along."

"I want to be there too," Bobbie said.

"Do you think that's really a good idea?" Peter asked dubiously.

"Why not? It's not like this is dangerous or anything, right? Jeremy's only going to talk to this Alice person and try to get you more info."

"Bobbie, you should stay here and rest," I objected. "It's getting late."

"No way."

I recognized the look in his eyes and knew I had already lost the argument. Bobbie can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be. In the end, Peter agreed to let him come along. I was to drive my own car to the club, while the others followed and parked not too far away in the sedan.

I placed Peter's bug inside my generously-padded bra for safe keeping, then wrapped myself in a heavy wool shawl against the cold night air, for lack of a proper woman's coat.

When we were all set, the Ancient came over and offered me his arm.

"Shall we go, my dear?" he asked.

Although I was very tempted to give him a kiss on the cheek, I figured that might be overdoing things a little. So I just took his arm and walked out with him.

 

Less than an hour later, I sat primly at one of the small tables, sipping now and again at my strawberry daiquiri and pretending to a detached interest in the floor show at the far side of the room. So far nothing had happened, but the night was still young. I had the dubious advantage of being the only oriental-looking person in the club, even though it was only Bobbie's make-up.

It's hard enough pretending to be a woman, but trying to simultaneously telegraph the fact that you're really a man pretending to be a woman is even harder. However, in these particular surroundings, almost no one was what he (or she) seemed.

I had decided my best bet was to act as if I were new at this: a little shy, nervous, maybe even in drag for the first time. That might cover up the very real nervousness I felt, sitting there hoping to attract the attention of a murderer. I had just about decided I was wasting my time when a waiter appeared at my table with a fresh daiquiri, saying it had been bought by someone who would very much like to meet me. Of course, it didn't have to be our quarry. It could have been a simple pick-up attempt. Smiling graciously, I accepted the drink and asked that my unknown benefactor come to my table.

A drag queen bearing a definite resemblance to Dolly Parton strolled over on the arm of a ruggedly-handsome young man.

I lifted my glass and indicated the empty chairs at my table. "Please join me. And thank you for the drink."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," the blonde said, in a voice that sounded quite feminine. She was very convincing, despite being a touch overdressed for my taste. And the cleavage certainly looked real. Probably implants.

"I don't believe I've seen you here before," she went on. "Are you new in town?" 

I lowered my eyes demurely. "Yes. I heard about this place, and thought it sounded interesting."

"Oh, it is. Very interesting." She studied me for a moment, then glanced at her silent companion. "Allow me to welcome you to town, my dear. My name is Alice, and my friend here is called Carl."

My heart skipped a beat. I gave her my name, still trying to sound like the shy country cousin in the big bad city for the first time.

"Jade," she cooed. "How very lovely. It suits you, my dear. It truly does."

We went on this way for a while, discussing nothing as femininely as possible, commenting on the performer's hairstyle, the absolutely ravishing evening gown someone over by the door was wearing, and other such frivolities. Carl never said a word, but I caught him staring at me intently several times.

Eventually, we got down to business.

"How would you like to make a lot of money for a few hours' work, Jade?" Alice asked casually.

"I'm -- not sure I know what you mean. I'm not a hooker or --"

She cut off my protest with a touch of her hand on my arm. "Oh no, my dear. Nothing like that, I assure you. Just some photographs. I have a number of clients who would pay well for pictures of such a lovely lady as yourself."

I pretended to modest confusion and laughed nervously. "Surely you can't be serious? I'm nothing special. There are dozens of far more beautiful people in this very room."

"Oh, but you are special, my dear," she assured me, leaning forward and smiling brightly. "My clients like oriental ladies." She waved her free hand negligently. "All these other folks are so common."

"Well, I could use some cash," I allowed hesitantly, hoping to egg her on. "But I really don't think I want to do anything like that."

We went back and forth that way for a few minutes, with me trying to get her to elaborate on what she wanted and her trying to reassure me.

Was this going to be enough for Peter, or should I keep at it?

The decision was abruptly taken out of my hands. Alice glanced at Carl and gave a slight nod. He pulled one side of his jacket open just far enough to allow me a glimpse of his other hand holding an automatic pistol. Alice's hand closed tightly around my wrist. Still with a friendly smile on her painted face, she leaned closer and said softly, "You'll come with us now, my dear. Or you'll be very sorry."

They both stood up, lifting me to my feet as they did so.

"Now wait a minute --" I protested.

"Shut up!" Carl hissed. "Walk."

Together, we headed in the direction of the rest rooms. I wondered briefly why they weren't taking me to the main entrance, then I saw that there was an exit door just past the rest rooms. I tried to hold back, but they each had an arm and I felt Carl's pistol pressed against my ribs. I was outside before I even thought about resisting, with Alice and Carl hustling me toward a silver-gray Lincoln parked at the side of a deserted street. Another highly photogenic and muscular young man got out of the car and opened the back door as we approached.

Gun or no gun, I didn't want to get into that car. Gambling that they wouldn't shoot me and damage the merchandise, I tried to pull free, at the same time aiming a kick at Carl.

Have you ever tried to kick someone while you're wearing a tight skirt? It doesn't work very well. I got a fist in the stomach for my trouble, then the other young man grabbed the front of my dress and flung me unceremoniously into the back seat. I was still doubled over and struggling to catch my breath as the Lincoln pulled away from the curb.

Alice and Carl were sandwiched in on either side of me, while the other man drove.

"That wasn't very cooperative of you, my dear," Alice said. "You made us mess up your nice outfit." She grabbed me by the torn bodice of my dress and pushed me back against the seat.

"Please don't hurt me," I begged between gasps, hoping Peter had caught onto what was happening and would be following us. Or was his bug just a recorder, and not a tracking device? I hadn't asked. "Let me go. Please. I don't want to --"

"Shut up!" Alice growled, shaking me roughly. Then her eyes dropped down to my chest. I looked down also. The torn dress had left my fake tits exposed, with the little black bug in plain sight at the edge of my bra. Oh, shit!

Her fingers followed her eyes, and in a moment the bug sat in the palm of her hand, while my heart almost decided to stop beating.

"Well, well. What have we here? Looks like some kind of a recording device."

I couldn't think of an answer, so I settled for a haughty stare.

"Now, why would you want to record our conversation, my dear? I do hope you weren't planning to go to the police with this."

I kept silent. Let them go on thinking it was nothing but a recorder. The more Peter heard the better. And the longer he could keep tracking us, if indeed it was a tracker.

"Ronnie, take the long way around. Jade and I need a little time to talk."

The driver nodded.

"Perhaps you can explain this?" Alice purred.

I shook my head, stalling for time.

She poked at the black ovoid with one fingernail. "Maybe this doesn't just record. Maybe it's a tracker also," she mused.

I devoutly hoped so, because I had caught no sight of Peter's sedan when I had risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror a moment ago.

Very deliberately, Alice let the bug fall to the floor of the car, where she crushed it under a spike heel. Scooping up the pieces, she tossed them out the window.

"There now, isn't that better? Now we won't be disturbed."

Peter, where are you? This would be a good time to hear a siren.

All I heard was the rush of traffic around us, and a low chuckle from the driver.

Alice clamped one hand just above my knee, pressing her fingers into the pressure points on either side of the bone.

"Talk to me, Jade. What are you up to?"

I winced as her grip tightened, but said nothing.

"There are ways to hurt people without doing any significant damage. Would you like to find out what they are?"

I decided silence would serve no further purpose. I stopped playing the shy and terrified lady and tried for a smartass approach instead. It's much more my style.

"That depends. Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. You can tell me why you're here and what you hoped to accomplish."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Tsk! Such language for someone who thinks he's a lady."

I did a lot of squirming and strangled screaming as she made good on her threat, but I didn't tell her what she wanted to know, which actually surprised me. What I did tell her was a story I concocted on the spur of the moment about being a friend of her last victim and trying to conduct my own private investigation into his murder. I tried to convince her I was working alone, without police involvement, hoping to record something incriminating.

"Well, Jade," she concluded at last, "if you were the bait, you just caught a bigger fish than you or any of your other perverted friends will be able to fry."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm very good at what I do, because I've had years of practice. I'm not just in this for the money, although that's certainly a factor. It's amazing what some people will pay to see. I'm basically doing it because I hate your kind."

"My -- kind?"

"Men who think they can be better women than real women. Sick perverts like you."

"I suppose killing people isn't sick and perverted?"

"I'm not killing people. I'm disposing of trash. And in a fitting and appropriate manner, I might add."

Now she had me thoroughly confused. "But why would you want to prey on your own people? I've heard of self-hatred, but this is ridiculous."

It was her turn to be confused now. "My own people? What in the blazing hell are you talking about?"

Ronnie caught on before she did. "He thinks you're a man, Alice," the driver explained, barely suppressing a laugh.

She leaned away from me, insult clear on her face.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" The fire in her eyes could have melted the ice in her voice.

"Well, the club, the extravagant clothes and overdone makeup. I just assumed --"

She looked at me, one plucked and penciled-in eyebrow raised.

Right, Jeremy. Never assume. Isn't that what you once tried to tell Peter? I thought, as the light dawned.

"You're not a man?" I said lamely.

"No shit, Sherlock," was the arch reply. She (really "she" this time!) laughed at my error. Unfortunately, she still sounded angry. I'd have preferred a touch of genuine amusement.

"I assume you have a rough idea of what I have planned for you, my dear?"

I nodded.

"It might cheer you to know that this is the last movie I'll be doing in this country. I've decided to take my little production company on the road again. I usually move to a new city after each movie, but the pickings have been so good here that I just couldn't bear to leave. Still, if the perverts themselves have taken to hunting me down, I figure it's time to move on. What do you say, boys? Maybe we ought to try Canada for a while."

Carl said nothing, as usual, leaving Ronnie to answer for them both. "Sure, Alice. I hear there are some pretty strange people up there. Anyplace you want is okay with us. You're the one paying the bills."

Satisfied, she smiled and leaned back in the seat. "Take us to the studio, Ronnie. We've wasted enough time on this already."

We made an abrupt turn onto a busy street. Shortly thereafter, we stopped briefly at a red light. I'd pretty much lost track of where we were and I certainly didn't recognize the street corner, but I caught a glimpse of a sign that read "Prince Street" just as he turned off the crowded thoroughfare. That told me nothing, other than the fact that we were in a part of the city unfamiliar to me. It was dark and deserted at this hour. Mostly old buildings with the appearance of a factory district that had seen better days.

Shortly after that, the car pulled over and carefully backed down to the end of a dingy little alley that dead-ended in a wall. I glanced around as well as I could as they hustled me across the cracked pavement and into the side door of what might have been an old warehouse or factory, judging by the aged brick walls and lack of windows. There wasn't much to distinguish this street or building from any other one in the immediate vicinity. I still didn't know exactly where I was. As the heavy door clanged shut behind me, I reflected that it might not much matter if I knew my location or not, since I now had no way to get that information to Peter.

The place was big and kind of echoey, as if there was more empty space out there in the unlighted darkness. I could just about make out high ceilings with exposed pipes, fluorescent light fixtures, and ventilation or heating conduits running every which way in the dimness overhead.

Ronnie flicked a couple of switches and some lights came on in a partitioned-off corner of the building. It looked rather like you'd expect the costume and make-up area of a movie studio to look, but on a smaller scale.

Carl still had his gun out and pointed at me as they marched me over into the light. I stood there self-consciously holding the front of my ripped dress closed, pretty much the way a woman might do under the same circumstances, while Alice circled around me, her eyes appraising my appearance.

"Ronnie, I'm afraid we've messed him up quite a bit," she said at last. "Fix his makeup. I don't want him looking this disheveled." She favored me with a nasty smile. "Not yet, anyway."

"Sure, Alice. You want him dressed better too?"

She nodded and continued her inspection, fingering the fabric of my skirt. "This shade of green is good on him, but the dress has got to go. Suggestions?"

"I know just the thing." Ronnie sorted through a rack of costumes, pulling out an extravagant concoction of lace, ruffles, and short gauzy skirts that looked like it might well be one of Victoria's better-kept Secrets. In my wildest daydreams, I'd never worn anything like that. It was, however, a delicate shade of green.

Ronnie held it up in front of me. Alice nodded.

"Got shoes to go with it?"

"Of course."

He produced a pair of spike heels with sling backs.

"Wait a minute," I objected. "I can't walk in those things."

"Don't worry. You don't have to walk very far. Or for very long."

Then he did a double-take, his eyes sliding over my face and coming back again to focus on it more sharply. He pulled my glasses off and ran a finger along the top of one of my eyelids. I made a successful grab for the glasses and replaced them on my nose as he announced, "Alice, this guy's not Chinese at all, but someone did a pretty good job of making him appear to be."

Alice had gone over to one of the mirrors and was vigorously brushing out her bleached-blond hair. Frowning, she laid the brush aside and came over to me. Taking my chin in one hand, she turned my head first one way then another.

"I like the illusion and my viewers prefer ethnic types," she decided at last. "Keep this basic look, but make it more pronounced, okay?"

"However you want it. It's your show."

"Indeed it is."

Her hand stroked my cheek, sliding back into my hair. She grabbed a handful and jerked my head back, hard enough to hurt.

"The hair isn't very long, but it's real, isn't it, my dear?"

"Yes," I replied through clenched teeth.

"That's nice. I despise wigs. Like condoms, they have a habit of coming off at the wrong times."

She opened her hand, but didn't take it away. Instead, her fingers slid around to my ear, pushing my hair out of the way.

"Don't care much for the earrings. Too much like something my mother would wear. Are your ears pierced?"

"Only the left one."

"Tsk tsk. Real women have both ears pierced. Oh well, that's not really a problem. Something green and dangly, Ronnie."

"Gotcha."

"Now hold on --" I started to object.

"Shut up and put this on," Ronnie said, thrusting the green lacy outfit into my arms. I just stood there, pretty much in shock.

"Do it, or I'll take that dress off you myself."

That didn't sound nearly as nice as it might have, under other circumstances. I did as I was told.

After helping me master the fine points of getting into the elaborate negligee, Ronnie circled around, inspecting me with a critical eye. He grabbed my hands, turning my arms up so he could see the network of thin white scars that crisscrossed each wrist.

"What happened here?" he asked scornfully. "You try to off yourself because you weren't a woman?"

"No, it was nothing like that at all."

He just shrugged. "Here, put on these wristlets. They should cover the scars pretty well."

They did.

A couple of minutes later, I found myself seated in a chair while Ronnie repaired and elaborated on my makeup. He'd taken off my glasses again, which made me half-blind and even more vulnerable. This was the first time I'd actually had a chance to think about my situation. The thoughts weren't particularly comforting.

I was about to become the unwilling star of a movie that would have no redeeming social value whatsoever. If I were Caine, or even Peter, I could perhaps have fought my way out of here. As things stood, I was still sore from my earlier attempt to prove my martial arts prowess, not to mention the lovely lady's tender ministrations.

My imagination insisted on dwelling on the immediate future. Nobody knew where I was, so no cavalry would come charging over the hill in the nick of time. About the best I could hope for was that I might be able to goad them into killing me fairly quickly, but I didn't even have much chance at that. After all, it was a movie they wanted. If it were a TV show, I could at least figure on all the time taken out for commercials. Even a made-for-TV movie would be an improvement.

(Yeah, I really thought all that. My mind was literally gibbering, even as I tried my best to maintain an outward show of calm.)

It wasn't much consolation to realize that Peter would have his suspicions irrevocably confirmed after they found my body. Maybe he'd even be able to catch up with Alice and her cronies before they left the country. Even so, it wouldn't do me any good.

I had my hands tightly clenched in my lap, so they wouldn't betray me by shaking. As the fake nails of one hand dug into the palm of the other, I became aware of Bobbie's ring on my finger. I traced the slight indentations of the carved dragons with a fingertip, thinking of the lover I would probably never see again.

That didn't exactly make me feel any better, but it sent my thoughts off in another direction. Bobbie, who even now would be worrying about me, along with Caine, Lo Si, and Peter. Peter would doubtless be totally frustrated, having realized his homing device had been destroyed and not knowing where to search for me. What would Caine and the Ancient be doing?

I remembered how Caine had touched my mind, when I was about to be killed by Bon Bon Hai a while back, even as Caine himself lay in the hospital, recovering from a bullet wound. The Ancient had helped him to contact me, he'd said, but even so it had been difficult.

Yeah, but he'd done it, hadn't he? Maybe he could do it again, if I gave him a chance.

Ronnie had finished with the makeup and was working on my hair, combing and styling it deftly. I closed my eyes, trying to form a picture in my mind of how Caine had looked on the various occasions I'd seen him meditating. I made an attempt at calling up that same sort of quietness in my mind. At first I was simply too scared to breathe properly, but after a couple of minutes some of the fear drifted away and my thoughts focused on the remembered image of his face, almost in profile.

I'm here, I thought. Oh please, find me! And make it soon!

I don't know how long I kept that up. It seemed like forever, yet it also seemed the briefest of instants. At one point, I thought I heard his voice in my mind, just the faintest whisper of "Jeremy? Where ...?" But that so freaked me out that my concentration slipped and I wasn't sure if I lost it or not. Nevertheless, I fixed my mind on what little I knew of my location, visualizing the street sign I had seen earlier and then the alley outside the entrance to the warehouse, with Alice's silver-gray Lincoln parked at the end. Maybe I wasn't making contact, or maybe I'd only imagined that brief trace of Caine's presence, or maybe he wouldn't be able to figure out where I was when I didn't really know myself. I'm no good at this telepathic stuff. I couldn't tell for sure.

Alice brought me abruptly back to reality by gouging her thumb into one of those nasty little pressure points on my shoulder. A certain amount of courage must have seeped into me from my concentration on Caine because I didn't so much as flinch at the sudden pain.

"Excellent," she said. "At least we haven't got a totally gutless wonder on our hands. Makes for better drama that way. I rather thought you might be a good prospect, after our little session in the car."

She handed me my glasses and turned the chair so I faced the mirror. "What do you think of the new you?"

You want to talk about a makeover? When I saw the image in the mirror, I had a hard time convincing myself it was really me. I had no idea I could look quite that gorgeous. Bobbie would have been amazed. He was good, but this was professional-level work. I was impressed despite my fear.

Then I got a good look at what Alice and Carl were wearing.

They were both in skintight black leather costumes, replete with studs and chains. They even wore masks that covered face and head; if I hadn't known who they were, I wouldn't have been able to recognize them. Of course, that would be the idea, if they meant to be in the movie themselves.

The outfits were so obviously stereotypical that they almost seemed ridiculous. I've fooled around a little with BDSM, so I know how the game is played. If that's all there was to this, I wouldn't have been so scared. But BDSM is a game, played with the full consent of everyone involved. It has its limits. Despite the silly costumes, this was for real. 

I guess Alice must have been enjoying the look on my face, because she laughed. Then she fingered the ruffles at my bodice. "You'll probably enjoy the first part of this, my dear. It's designed to prove you really are a man, despite this outfit."

At a wave of her hand, Ronnie hoisted me out of the chair and led me past several racks of costumes and over to another well-lighted area of the warehouse. "Okay," he explained as we went, "here's how it works. Feel free to struggle and scream all you want, but if you try to say anything that hints at who we are, we'll have you gagged and go on from there. Got that?"

I nodded as I looked over what appeared to be a stage set with the appearance of a medieval dungeon. Well, at least it went with their costumes.

"What now? We gonna play dungeons and dragons?" I quipped.

"Ha ha, very funny," Ronnie replied coldly.

"No, it's okay," Alice put in. "I like it better when they show a little spirit. That won't last long, don't worry." She glanced over at Ronnie, who had picked up a video camera and was fiddling with the controls. "Ready?"

He nodded. Alice grinned. "Okay. Action!"

Carl grabbed hold of me and dragged me roughly into the room. Considering the spike heels I was wearing, it was all I could do to stay on my feet. As it was, I took a nasty crack on the head when he thrust me up against the wall. Before I knew what was happening, they had my back to the wall and my wrists clamped into manacles off to each side of my head. Alice strode over to face me, holding a riding crop in one hand.

No one had said I couldn't fight back. I raised one leg and kicked her squarely in the stomach, heels and all. Unfortunately, her leather outfit protected her from any real damage, but she did stagger backwards and land on her ass, gasping for breath in a most unladylike manner.

"You'll pay for that, pervert," she said as soon as she could breathe again. "Oh yes, you'll pay."

I believed her.

 

I must admit that she had told the truth earlier on. I almost enjoyed what they did for starters. That is, if you can enjoy having someone jerk you off rather roughly, while simultaneously being jeered at and smacked around. I can't say I enjoyed getting hit with the riding crop, but at least it's not the kind of thing that causes lasting damage or serious internal injury. By the time they began getting really nasty, my already flimsy outfit was pretty well ruined and my hair and make-up were a disaster area. I was also beginning to run out of smart remarks.

(Okay, I'm being funny. But you really don't want to know what it's like to be chained to a wall and savaged, do you? If you do, go out and try it yourself sometime. If it's for real, and you're going to end up dead, I doubt very much that you'll enjoy it.)

When Alice took out a short-bladed but very sharp knife and held it up in front of my face, I knew things were about to get serious.

"Okay, pervert," she said with cruel delight. "You want to be a woman? I'll make you one."

I couldn't let that pass without making a smart comeback. After all, how much worse could it possibly make things?

"You're selling yourself short, lady. A woman is something entirely different from a man with his prick cut off."

"What would you know about it?" she sneered.

"Apparently, a whole lot more than you do."

"We'll see about that, my dear." She laughed shortly as she moved closer to me. I couldn't take my eyes off the shining blade of the knife in her hand.

"Police! Freeze!"

I never imagined I'd be so happy to hear Peter's voice, although I couldn't see him. For that first glorious instant, I imagined it was all over and I was safe, until someone killed the lights, plunging the entire building into darkness.

A couple of shots rang out, but people soon gave up shooting blind. From my vantage point, all I could hear was an occasional shout or scuffle. I had no idea whether Peter had come to my rescue alone or if he'd brought the entire police force. I was frankly hoping for the latter, but it was just too quiet. Alice and her cronies had to be trying to find their way out of the building, even as Peter (and his back-up?) attempted to collar them.

Meanwhile, I struggled vainly to get my wrists free, desperately wanting to call for help, but not at all certain it wouldn't draw the attention of the wrong party.

"Jeremy, hold still. I will free you." Caine's voice next to my ear, barely above a whisper.

"You don't have the keys --" I stopped when I felt the manacles let go. I didn't bother to ask how he did it.

"Come with me," he said, taking a firm grip on my arm. I tried, but my ankles wobbled sideways and twisted in the damn spike heels. I would have fallen except that he held me up.

"You are hurt?"

I quickly kicked off the shoes.

"It's okay. Let's go."

How Caine found his way around in the total darkness, I have no idea. I just went whichever way he pulled me. I think someone attacked us or blundered into us at one point, because Caine moved away from me for a few moments and I heard something going on. Then we were through a doorway and I felt cold outdoor air on my skin. I blinked stupidly in the sudden glare from a streetlight, trying to figure out where we were. It seemed to be the same alley I'd seen earlier, but Alice's Lincoln was parked further down the street, so we had to have come through a different door.

Peter's sedan was parked an equal distance in the opposite direction, close to the entrance to the alley. Caine steered me toward the safety of the car. Suddenly, he froze, then spun around as if he'd heard something.

I turned also, barely in time to see a black-clad figure jump into the Lincoln. It was too small to be Carl so I knew it had to be Alice.

The powerful motor roared to life, then the car screeched away from the curb, gaining speed rapidly. It swerved towards us. Caine jerked me back against the wall, and the car missed us by inches.

After all I had gone through, was Alice going to escape? Peter and the others were still inside the building. Caine might be a terrific martial artist, but I didn't think his talents extended to fighting automobiles, particularly ones that were rapidly accelerating away from us.

Suddenly, the parked sedan jerked forward, pulling out directly into the path of the oncoming Lincoln. I heard Caine yell, "Bobbie, no!" and realized who the driver had to be, but there was nothing I could do except watch.

In almost dreamlike slow motion, I saw the two vehicles collide. The Lincoln plowed into the side of the other car and pushed it along the street in a screech of metal and rubber that only stopped when both vehicles fetched up against the wall of the building.

I snapped out of shocked immobility when I saw Caine running toward the wreck. He vaulted over the back of the Lincoln and pulled the mangled door off the driver's side of the sedan. By the time I got there, he was dragging Bobbie carefully out of the wreckage.

Blood covered Bobbie's face, but I saw his chest rise and fall as Caine laid him on the sidewalk. I went to my knees next to him.

Most of the blood seemed to be from a cut on his forehead. I reminded myself that scalp wounds often bleed profusely, even if they aren't serious.

Caine, meanwhile, totally oblivious to the HIV-tainted blood all over Bobbie's shirt, had his hands pressed flat against the injured man's chest. But he wasn't doing CPR. Instead, his eyes were closed and his face was set in that relaxed-but-concentrated look he gets sometimes. I wanted desperately to take Bobbie in my arms and just hold him, but I dared not disrupt whatever Caine was doing. Taking Bobbie's limp hand in both of mine, I crouched next to him, willing him to be okay.

When Peter touched my shoulder, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Ambulance on the way," he said softly. "Pop? How is he?" Even as he spoke, Peter had shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. It was only then that I realized I was pretty close to naked in the cold wind blowing along the street.

With an effort that was almost visible, Caine pulled himself back into the real world.

"Several ribs are broken. He is bleeding into his lungs, but not badly. I have stopped it as best I can." He looked at me. "There is no immediate danger, but he must have help."

Bobbie opened his eyes, drew a rasping breath and grimaced.

"Did you get her?"

"Yeah," Peter confirmed. Then he added, somewhat shamefaced, "Actually, it was the Ancient who got her. She wasn't badly hurt in the crash."

But I didn't care about all of that. All I cared about was Bobbie. "Don't try to talk now," I cautioned. "Save your strength."

His hand tightened on mine. "What for, Jeremy?" He tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a gurgle. "God, you look a fright!"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

I heard what I hoped was the siren of an approaching ambulance.

Bobbie lifted my hand, indicating with one finger the jade ring I still wore. "Put this on that Quilt panel you promised to make me, okay?"

"Bobbie, you're not gonna --"

"Just do it," he whispered.

I nodded. Pulling the ring off my finger, I returned it to its usual place on Bobbie's hand. "For luck. It worked for me, didn't it?"

He smiled. Then the ambulance was there and EMT's were crawling all over us. Caine drew me to my feet as they placed Bobbie on a stretcher.

"Jeremy, come away. There is ... nothing more you can do."

"I've got to go with them. I can't --"

"Bobbie is being cared for. You would only be in the way."

"But I've got to --"

"No, you do not. Besides, you should not appear at the hospital, dressed as you are. Is it not possible that people will ... misunderstand?"

Actually, the problem was that they might understand all too well. But that got through to me where nothing else could. The ambulance crew didn't know me. In fact, they might not even have realized I wasn't a woman. But if I showed up in the Emergency Room, I'd have a whole lot of explaining to do.

By now the ambulance had pulled away. I let Caine lead me away from the wrecked vehicles and over to the wall, his arm across my shoulder and his body blocking me from the sight of most of the police officers, who were busily trying to sort out the situation.

I started really shaking then, as my conscious mind finally had time to absorb the danger that had passed. The numerous welts and bruises on various parts of my anatomy began clamoring for attention all at once. I guess I was sort of in shock, since about all I could do was stand there and hug Peter's jacket tighter around my bare shoulders.

Caine caught Peter's eye and waved him over.

"Yeah, Pop. What is it?"

"You will ... drive us to Jeremy's home."

"He's got to make a statement."

"He will do that later. Right now, we must leave."

I thought Peter was going to put up an argument, but then he glanced down at my bare legs and the tatters of filmy green fabric that barely hung below the bottom of his jacket.

“I see what you mean, Pop. Come on."

I don't remember too much about the ride home. Somehow, Caine got me undressed and into the shower. I recall washing the makeup off my face. That sort of brought me back to reality; that, and the water beating down on my head and stinging my various cuts and other surface damage.

I found out later on that Caine and Peter had indeed come into the club after me, once they realized I was being kidnapped. By the time they found their way into the back alley, however, Alice's car had already left. Returning to their sedan, they set out to follow us, using the recorder, which, as I had hoped, also doubled as a tracking device.  
Alice had a considerable lead by then, so Peter tried a shortcut once he had a rough idea of the direction we were heading. Unfortunately, there had just been an accident along the route he chose. He had almost managed to maneuver around the resulting traffic jam when Alice discovered and destroyed the bug, leaving him to continue blindly in the direction we had been going, but with little hope of actually finding us. Having heard just enough of the conversation between Alice and me to realize that I was in serious danger, Peter called the precinct for help, as Bobbie tried not to freak out completely. Meanwhile, Caine and the Ancient joined together in one of those meditation trances, hoping to pick up some clue as to my whereabouts.

It was almost a half hour later when they finally picked up my desperate "message". They had been holding their trance for so long that they were both pretty exhausted. All they got was a quick image of a street sign and an alley and Alice's car before the contact dissolved. That at least got them in the right vicinity, but it took time to find the correct alley. When they did, they went in without waiting for back-up, not knowing what might be happening to me. They left Bobbie in the car.

And you know where the story went from there.

I heard the phone as I was getting out of the shower. Caine must have picked it up, because it cut off after two rings. When I stumbled out into the living room transformed once more into my usual more or less masculine self, I found Caine sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Bobbie's altar. He rose at once, levered me down onto the couch, and put a cup of something hot in my hand, refusing to say anything more until I had drunk the whole thing. I watched a thin line of smoke snake its way upwards from the stick of incense Caine had lit on the altar as I let the hot liquid slide down my throat. Then I looked at him.

"How is Bobbie?" I asked, entirely too calmly.

Caine closed his eyes momentarily before he answered. "Peter ... called from the hospital. The doctors can offer little hope."

Even then, I wasn't ready to hear the truth.

"There must be something more you can do," I objected. "Something we haven't tried yet."

"Jeremy, ... I told you when you first came to me about Bobbie, that I cannot cure AIDS."

Yeah, but I thought you were just being modes."

He shook his head.

"Well, dammit, you can't just give up! There must be --"

My voice broke and I turned my head away. I felt Caine's hands on my shoulders. I probably could have turned around right then and cried in his arms, but I knew if I did I'd have to admit to myself that it was hopeless. That wasn't what I wanted, so I resisted the tears, and with them, Caine's offer of comfort. I just sat there staring at the statue of the Buddha and trying to tell myself Bobbie had a chance.

Now, on a few rare occasions, I've picked up images of things that had to have come from Caine's memories. At least that's the only explanation I can think of for the scene that suddenly played itself out in my head.

It was outside, probably in a courtyard at the Temple, judging by what was going on. Caine, in orange robes and beads and without his hair, was talking to a young man who appeared to be Native American. Several grim-looking monks in gray outfits surrounded the boy, attacking him in what was obviously some kind of test or practice match. He fought valiantly but was eventually overwhelmed and held by the others.

The young man looked at Caine, who stood with his hands clasped in front of him, and asked, "When there are so many, what do I do?"

I expected some sort of clever advice or spectacular demonstration of how to escape and emerge victorious from the present situation. Instead, Caine clapped his hands sharply twice to signal the monks to release their captive and said rather sadly, "Against overwhelming odds, you lose."

The scene faded.

"No," I whispered. "I don't want to lose. I don't want Bobbie to lose."

Caine didn't say anything right away. If he realized what had happened and what I was referring to, he offered no explanation for it. Only his words to the Indian boy echoed in my head.

"Jeremy," he said at last, "perhaps to die accomplishing something is not truly to lose. Since none of us may live forever, perhaps it is the ... only way to win, in the end."

I knew then what I had been trying so hard not to know.

"He's really going to die this time, isn't he?" I said at last.

"Yes," was the quiet answer.

"What do you do when you have to watch someone you love die?"

I regretted the words almost as soon as they had left my lips. He'd lost a wife. I didn't know the exact circumstances of her death, but I seemed to recall he'd mentioned a lingering disease. My question would bring back no happy thoughts.

Caine sighed and said simply, "You ... mourn. And you give what love you can, while you can."

"I'm not very good at love."

"It is a ... thing which is learned best by doing."

"I'm even worse at mourning."

"That ... is also a thing learned best by doing," he suggested.

"How can you be so damn calm about it?" I asked, not angrily.

"Jeremy ..." and the hesitation was longer than usual here -- "I ... am not."

I turned around to face him, utterly astounded to see there were tears in his eyes.

Something broke inside and I let myself feel the grief I'd been trying to deny for so long. Sometimes you lose, and there will be no happy endings. There was nothing more I could do for Bobbie, nothing but stand by and watch him die. I didn't know where I would find the courage to do that, but I knew I would have to try.

 

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow description of my Bobbie's losing battle with pneumonia. Otherwise, this would turn into a medical journal. He lived for all of eight days before the end came. He had long ago signed one of those living wills that forbid extreme measures in hopeless cases, and I made sure the hospital personnel abided by his wishes. He was in Intensive Care, but there was no respirator to force air into his unwilling lungs. I stayed with him the entire time. Caine and the Ancient came by often, with their herbal remedies and assorted magical potions. Perhaps they couldn't save him, but they seemed determined to make him as comfortable as possible. To an extent, it worked.

Then a day came when I was sprawled out in the chair next to the bed, thoroughly exhausted and barely more conscious than Bobbie. A slight sound disturbed my half-doze. Forcing my eyes open, I saw that Caine had come into the room and was leaning over Bobbie, smoothing the hair back from his forehead.

"They have found ... proof that Alice was responsible for many other murders," Caine said softly to Bobbie.

At that point, I couldn't have cared less, but Caine wasn't talking to me.

"There is more than enough evidence to convict her," he went on. "My son said to tell you ... that they could not have done it without you and Jeremy."

So big deal, I thought bitterly, watching him from under half-closed eyelids. Why are you bothering him with this?

I might have gotten up and said exactly that, but I caught a glimpse of Bobbie's face and that stopped me. For the first time in days, he was smiling. I could barely hear his whispered reply.

"Maybe -- there was a -- reason -- then?"

"There is always ... a reason," Caine said gently, "although we often do not know what it is. Just as your life has not been in vain, neither is your death in vain. Go in peace and honor, and regret nothing."

Go? I thought in alarm. That didn't sound good at all. I struggled to my feet. "Caine? What are you doing here? What's going --"

He silenced me with a short gesture. I looked at Bobbie. He was still smiling, but I got the feeling he wasn't really seeing me or Caine. His eyes closed slowly, but the smile remained.

Bobbie never regained consciousness after that, although he was technically alive for several more hours. Lo Si arrived shortly before the end came. I saw the monitors flat line.

Several nurses came running into the room when the alarms went off, but they respected the "No Code Blue" order on Bobbie's chart and made no attempt to resuscitate him.

I wrapped my arms around my lost love and laid my head down on his chest. Caine and Lo Si stood on either side of the bed, reciting something in Chinese. The only word I recognized had something to do with light.

I held Bobbie until Caine pried my arms loose, a long time later. Then Caine held me until I could stop crying.

"Jeremy, you must ... come away now," he said at last. "Let us tend to the body."

"Just one more thing," I said raggedly. I slid the carved jade ring off Bobbie's finger. I'd promised to put it on his Quilt panel, hadn't I? I tried to close his half-open, glazing eyes, but it isn't as easy as it looks in the movies. Even so, his face still appeared peaceful, as it had been when he'd died. I settled for kissing his forehead before I let Caine lead me away.

Against overwhelming odds, my Bobbie had lost -- or perhaps he'd won, after all.


	7. Who Does Not Trust Enough

WHO DOES NOT TRUST ENOUGH

I went a little crazy after my lover died of AIDS. Before the end, Bobbie had accepted the situation and made his peace. I was the one who couldn't deal with it.

Now, as those of you who have read previous accounts of my adventures know, I've gotten depressed enough about things in the past to try to kill myself. Strangely enough, this wasn't the same kind of feeling at all. I didn't want to die. I just wanted not to have to remember that Bobble was gone. That wasn't an easy thing to do, under the circumstances.

I had continued to live in his apartment and had even made arrangements with the landlady to take over the lease. I know I wanted to stay, but it was hard to be constantly in the midst of all the reminders of my lost love. His family didn't want any of his possessions. They had long ago disowned him when they found out he was gay. That left me to go through his things, choosing what to keep and what to dispose of. I guess some people would have just tossed everything out, but I'm not like that. I picked and chose and sorted until I had it all organized, using the excessive busywork to deaden the pain from my bleeding heart.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the only way I tried to stop the hurt.

I probably could have gotten all the tranquilizers I wanted from the doctors at the hospital where I worked, but you can blot out your mind with nothing more than alcohol, if you try hard enough.

I tried pretty hard.

Unfortunately, alcohol isn't really a very good pain-killer, although there are plenty of people who try to use it that way. Sooner or later, the pain gets through. It's your sense of reason that gets bogged down. Nevertheless, some part of my uptight conscience kept me sober, or at least functionally so, whenever I got called in for work. I wanted to keep that MRI job badly. Come hell or high water, I wasn't about to screw it up at this stage of the game. Not after two years of x-ray school and the offer of a rare opening in the specialty I loved. When you're in your early fifties, you don't get a lot of chances to start over again. I was bound and determined not to blow this one.

But when I wasn't working, I was doing my best to anesthetize my brain with whatever I could afford, or connive other people into buying for me. I'm a pretty cheap drunk. It doesn't take much to do me in.

Of course, being me, I also tried to dull the pain by screwing everyone I could. But the old conscience even pulled in the reins on that. No matter what the circumstances or my state of inebriation, I always seemed to have a supply of condoms on hand and managed to make sure they were put to good use at the appropriate moment. I suppose that's because it wasn't just about me here. There were other people who could be hurt, and I didn't want that. For all I knew at that point, I was HIV+. Oh sure, I'd had myself tested after Bobble died, but it was far too soon to be certain of anything, considering the long incubation period of that damn virus. Hence, the rubbers.

Ever since Bobbie's death, I had also been avoiding Kwai Chang Caine, out of shame for one thing. (And the other reason? Well, I'd always found Caine extremely attractive, but I knew he wasn't gay, so I didn't want to risk running into him when I might be too drunk to take that important fact into consideration. It's real easy to ruin your friendship with a straight man if you make a pass at him.)

At any rate, the way I encountered him again wasn't really how I would have preferred it to happen, but life's like that sometimes, isn't it?

Perhaps because of Bobbie, I had a predilection for oriental types, something not all that easy to come by in the gay bars. But I had been lucky that night, having almost literally stumbled onto some seemingly-interested parties in a dreary and otherwise nondescript watering-hole on the opposite side of Chinatown from where I lived.

So it was that I found myself in an alley behind the bar with my three young prospects, gleefully anticipating a little action.

Turns out the "action" they had in mind was more along the lines of assault and battery than the harmless public indecency and lust that I had been hoping for. I tried to fight them off and actually got in a pretty solid right to the jaw on one of them. Unfortunately, I neglected to lock my wrist as I connected and ended up causing more pain to myself than to my opponent. (I know better. Hadn't my dear old dad forced me to take karate lessons as a child? But, hey, what do you want from a limp-wristed fairy?)

Anyway, after getting hit a few times, I was frantically offering them my wallet, watch, and anything else I could think of to make them go away when Caine appeared, as he usually does, out of nowhere.

What with the darkness and the distraction offered by my would-be muggers, I didn't really see him, but there was no way I couldn’t recognize the voice that told them softly to leave me alone. After all, I'd heard it often enough in the past, hadn't I?

My assailants shoved me roughly to the ground and turned to face the stranger who had dared to interfere with their fun. My glasses fell off as I landed, much to my chagrin. I'm damn near blind without them.

I guess the young punks didn't know who Caine was, because one of them actually laughed when he stepped out of the shadows.

"Hey, old man, you'd better go back to your rocking chair before you get hurt," the youngster said mockingly.

"You really don't want to do this," I warned the young smartass as I groped around for my glasses and then scuttled off to one side and out of the way.

"Shut up, faggot. No one asked you." He aimed a kick in my general direction, without taking his eyes off Caine. He missed, since I was no longer where I had been.

Caine was still standing where he had first appeared, to all intents and purposes entirely at ease. "Please," he said, gesturing toward the mouth of the alley, "leave."

"You gonna make us?"

"I have no wish to harm you."

"Harm us?! Not likely, pal."

"Let's teach this old bastard a lesson," one of the others chimed in.

Oh, come on, I thought. You have got to be kidding. But, of course, they weren't. They spread out and headed for Caine.

The "old bastard" wiped up the floor with them. So what else is new?

I would have cheered him on, but I was too busy throwing up by this time, probably due to the combined effect of the booze, the fear, and the punch that had landed in my solar plexus earlier on.

Despite the mess I was in, Caine got me on my feet and held me up enough to walk out of the alley. I'm afraid I wasn't much help. In fact, I was a pretty definite hindrance, being just about able to stumble along next to him.

"Where're we going?" I finally managed to ask.

"Lo Si ... lives nearby."

"I don't think he'll be wanting visitors at this hour," I objected. "Why don't you just take me to my place?"

"It is too far, ... unless you wish me to pick you up and carry you?"

Actually, I wouldn't have minded. But the neighbors might have noticed and drawn the wrong conclusions.

"Uh -- no. Better not."

By now, Caine had me aimed at the porch of one of a row of similar houses on a quiet side street.

"You sure the Ancient won't mind?"

"He ... will not," my companion said, as we climbed the steps.

As usual, Caine was right. Lo Si opened the door, smiling brightly as if he'd been expecting us, even though it had to be somewhere around 2 A.M. by now.

He took me by the other arm, guiding me down the short hallway and into a small living room. I almost knocked over the fern standing by the door as I staggered past. Then I pretty much collapsed on the couch.

Caine fetched a wet towel so I could clean myself up a little, while Lo Si knelt by the couch examining my now very swollen and sore wrist. I had to be at work tomorrow for the afternoon shift, but I figured I could handle the MRI computer one-handed, if I had to, so I wasn't all that worried about it. I had avoided getting hit in the face during the melee, so any bruises I had would at least not be visible.

Glancing around with my usual avid curiosity, I noted that the Ancient's place was done in much the same style as Caine's, a style I decided then and there to dub "Chinese Clutter", or perhaps "Antique Apothecary". They must use the same interior decorator. The most noticeable difference was that the walls were covered with a rather sickly green wallpaper and all the trim was red. Otherwise, the usual collection of odd jars and containers full of heaven-only-knows-what covered virtually every flat surface. And, sure enough, he had a bunch of the same dried lizards mounted on sticks that I had wondered about every time I saw them at Caine's, but never quite got around to asking what they were for.

A small altar sat along the wall by the door, with a rather more elaborate set-up for the statue of the Buddha than I'd seen at Caine's. On the altar, a stick of incense in a brass pot sent up a wavering tendril of smoke.

With the exception of a small desk lamp, the only light in the room came from candles. It would have seemed rather cozy and comforting, except for that bilious green wallpaper. The color alone was almost enough to send my none-too-steady stomach into another session of nausea.

Okay, if you can tell from the quality of the above ruminations that I was still pretty sloshed, you're absolutely right. But at least I wasn't throwing up anymore, so I felt halfway decent. That is, until Lo Si tried to flex my wrist a little and I damn near bit my tongue trying to stifle the resulting scream.

"I do not believe it is broken," he said. "Perhaps sprained."

And how could he know that without an x-ray, may I ask? To me it felt as if every single one of the eight bones that make up the wrist -- the names of which I had learned in excruciating detail not all that long ago, incidentally -- were not only broken but totally pulverized. But I didn't bother to mention this particular insight out loud. Like Caine, the Ancient usually knew what he was talking about, so I was inclined to believe him, despite the clamoring insistence of the agony in my hand. Perhaps, as he had said, it was just sprained and not entirely demolished. That would be nice.

I risked a glimpse at my aching hand. Bobbie's carved jade ring shone warmly where the candlelight touched my right pinky. The ring was actually too big for that finger, but I didn't feel good about wearing it where it fit best, since that would have been in the place usually reserved for a wedding ring. I felt a twinge of guilt every time I looked at it, since I had promised Bobbie to make a panel for the AIDS Memorial Quilt and put that ring, which had been his grandmother's, on it.

"Should I take off the ring? In case my fingers swell up?" I asked the Ancient.

He turned my hand over and then back, touching it carefully and feeling for signs of further damage.

"That should not be necessary," he concluded. "It is only the wrist that is injured. And the ring is quite loose. Lie back and relax."

That last suggestion isn't too easy to implement, when you more than half expect another stab of pain at any moment. But all Lo Si did was take my wrist between his two hands and hold it gently. It started to feel a little better. And I started to feel awfully sleepy. I closed my eyes, just for a minute, and ended up falling asleep. (Okay, so maybe I passed out.)

When I woke up, sunlight assaulted my eyes from the window behind the couch, so I judged it to be morning. My head ached so badly that I was sorely tempted to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but the couch wasn't all that comfortable. My wrist didn't hurt much, but it sure felt cold. Upon investigating this unusual phenomena, I discovered the cause was somewhat less than arcane: it was wrapped in a towel full of ice cubes, standard first aid for sprains.

I sat up, then wished I hadn't. My entire body seemed vaguely brittle, as if I would shatter if I moved too fast. I groaned, rubbing futilely with my good hand at eyeballs that felt as if they'd like to pop out of my head and roll across the carpet.

Caine unfolded himself from where he'd been sitting on the floor.

"How ... do you feel?" he inquired.

"You don't want to know." Licking my lips with a tongue made entirely of cotton, I inquired without too much hope, "I don't suppose you've got anything around here to drink, have you?"

Caine held out a teacup. Whatever was in it, I seriously doubted that it had any alcoholic content at all.

"That's not exactly what I had in mind."

"I ... know. But it will help."

It did. He ought to patent the stuff as a hangover cure. It didn't make all my various discomforts go away entirely, but there began to be some hope that I might be functional by the time I had to report in to work at County General that afternoon.

"Where's Lo Si?" I asked, when I felt human enough to engage in conversation.

"He went to see Mrs. Leong. Her arthritis is ... bothering her again."

"Oh."

So we were alone here, and Caine had probably wasted most of the morning babysitting me. Shit!

I shifted uncomfortably on the couch, wondering if I dared to stand up just yet. "May I ask you something?"

He nodded once.

"Why do you bother with me?"

He looked at me questioningly. In a fit of self-loathing, I elaborated on my statement.

"I'm nothing, nobody. Just an aging fairy. While you -- you're something special. Something I've never been and never could be."

"Every life is special, ... yours no less so than mine."

By now I knew him well enough to realize he meant it. But I didn't feel very special. In fact, considering the circumstances, all I felt was pretty damn stupid.

He must have noticed that, because he said gently, "Jeremy, you are ... grieving, and seeking comfort. Such a thing cannot be found in a bottle."

I couldn't argue with that, even if I'd wanted to.

"I told you not long before Bobbie died that I wasn't any good at mourning," I grumbled.

Caine looked at me and I had the feeling I knew just how Peter felt when he tried to put something over on his father.

I sorted through a few lame excuses, then discarded them in favor of saying what I thought he wanted to hear. "Okay, okay. I won't do it again. I promise."

His expression didn't change in the least. There was still that "Tell me another one" look in his eyes, so I knew the only one I was fooling was myself.

"All right," I conceded. "I probably will do it again. Satisfied? I know I shouldn't. I know it doesn't make anything any better."

"It is not the ... knowing that is the hard part. It is the doing." He hesitated for a moment before going on, just long enough for me to wonder if he spoke from his own experience or from what he knew of human nature in general. "Especially when ... things go wrong and life is filled with sorrow."

I got the very definite feeling then that he wasn't merely theorizing. Oh, maybe it wasn't alcohol specifically that he was referring to, but it was something.

I don't know what it is about me, but I won't listen to pretty words and preachments from those kindly and virtuous souls who've spent their whole lives in the sunshine. I won't heed any advice unless it comes from someone who has walked through the shadows and clawed their way out of the abyss.

And Caine? Well, despite the aura of almost supernatural calm and peacefulness that seemed to radiate from the man, I got the distinct feeling that sometime in his life he'd reached depths lower than any I'd ever tried to plumb, and walked through fires hotter than those that burned in my own personal hell. Underneath that smooth surface, it was all there. The only difference was that he could face it without flinching, and he could control it.

"It is not just ... the drinking, Jeremy. There are other things, are there not?"

"You mean like screwing everything in sight?" I admitted wretchedly. "Yeah."

"This is not ... the way."

"What would you know about it? You're a priest."

He just looked at me, and I didn't see anything like innocence in his eyes. Okay, rethink that one. I was pretty sure that your traditional Buddhist monks were celibate, but perhaps the Shaolin folks don't put a real high value on that sort of thing? After all, he'd been married. And maybe that wasn't all he'd been doing, since his wife had died a long time ago.

"Well, anyway, you aren't gay," I concluded lamely.

He shrugged. "Gay, straight ... it is still sex."

"So? You got something against sex?"

"No," he replied, looking at me with a sort of tolerant amusement, as if I'd said something really dumb. "It is only your ... reason ... for doing it that is wrong."

Not too long ago, I'd have gotten mad at anyone who told me that. But the anger wasn't there just now. Even worse, I knew he was right. I was doing all this screwing around mostly because I couldn't have Bobbie anymore.

And -- okay, I admit it -- I was also doing it because I couldn't have Caine. There was only one place where I'd ever find myself in bed with the man and I knew exactly where it was: In your dreams, Jeremy. In your dreams.

I thought I'd gotten used to that idea, but evidently I hadn't. Okay, and maybe I never would. But he was definitely not going to know, damn it! Not unless he really could read minds, that is.

"It ... has been almost two months since Bobbie died. Is it not time that you made the panel for the ... AIDS Quilt, ... as you promised him you would?"

He had to mention that. I glanced down at the jade ring on my hand. "Yeah, I guess it is. I just haven't been feeling quite up to it. Besides, I'm not very good at working with fabric and stuff."

"I could ... help you, if you wish."

"What? Don't tell me you're a seamstress too?"

He shrugged. "A ... little."

"Okay, you're on. Come over to my place tomorrow -- no, I have to work tomorrow. How about Friday?"

"I ... am having lunch with a friend on Friday. Perhaps you would like to join us? We can discuss the ... materials that will be needed."

Food was about the last thing on my mind just then, but I figured I was bound to feel better in a couple of days. "Sure. Sounds good to me, if your friend won't mind."

"She ... will not. Do you know where the Ming Chun House is located?"

That was one of the nicer restaurants in Chinatown.

"Yeah, but I've never eaten there."

"I will be at the front entrance at noon."

Noon. That made me wonder what time it was. I glanced at my wristwatch and grimaced. It was almost noon now.

"Oh, jeez! I'm due at the hospital at 3 PM! I gotta go home and clean up."

I started to get to my feet. Unfortunately, I tried to use my right hand to push myself up and ended the above statement with a few choice cuss words as a result.

"You will ... wait ... until I have bandaged your wrist," Caine said firmly once I had shut up. He produced an elastic bandage from that shoulder bag he always carries. Sitting down next to me on the couch, he proceeded to wrap my wrist with the stretchy pink stuff.

The pain in my hand brought back to my mind the events of the previous evening.

"You sure wiped up the floor with those guys who were beating on me," I said, glad to have a different subject to discuss.

As usual, he just shrugged.

"Shit, I'd sell my soul to be able to do the stuff you do!" I continued, still waxing enthusiastic.

He released my wrist. Drawing back a little, he cocked his head and looked at me kind of sideways.

"Would you ... really?" he asked.

"Really what?"

"Sell ... your soul?"

I snorted and said, perhaps more bitterly than I'd intended, "Why not? I've already sold my body more times than I can remember, sometimes for nothing more than the price of a drink. Why not my soul also?"

"Although sometimes the two ... go together," he allowed quietly, "it is also possible ... to sell the body and not the soul."

That was kind of a new concept for me. He may have realized that, since he let me think about it for a minute before going on. "In any case, it is not necessary to sell your soul to learn kung fu, or any of the other martial arts. It takes only the desire to learn, and the determination to persevere."

I shook my head. "I could never do all the stuff you do."

"Perhaps not. But you could do some of it. I will teach you, if you wish."

"I'm too old."

"Perhaps you will tell Lo Si ... he is also too old?"

He had a point there. I had seen the Ancient in action, and he was pretty impressive. But then again, he'd been doing it all his life. As for me, I'd never be a genuine expert at kung fu, or any other martial art. It really was too late for that. But I could probably learn to do it, to an extent.

"Let me think about that, okay? I'll let you know over lunch on Friday."

He nodded.

"Meanwhile, I better go."

I stood up gingerly.

"Look, Caine --" I stood hesitating at the door, "Thanks, huh?"

He inclined his head a fraction. "You are ... welcome."

 

Remember I mentioned how I'd been going through Bobble's things? Well, the next morning before I was due at work, I decided to tackle something I'd been putting off for a while. Like Caine and Lo Si, Bobbie also had a small altar. A short time before his death, he had broken one of the vases in a brief outburst of rage. After that, the altar had been left pretty much alone. My eyes had slid over it repeatedly, trying not to notice that one day I'd have to either get rid of the whole thing as irrelevant, or refurbish it and set it up to suit my aesthetic, and perhaps spiritual, sensibilities.

This was to be the day.

I started by taking all the items off the narrow table and lining them up on the floor, then I dusted and polished the table. I managed all this with my left hand, since my sprained wrist still hurt some if I moved it wrong. (I'd sprained things before though, and it was actually healing quite fast, for some strange reason.)

With the preliminary work done, I sat down and carefully considered each thing. Above and beyond the memories of Bobbie, did it have meaning for me? If the answer was "yes", or even "maybe", I moved it over next to the table. If "no", I set it aside for later donation to the local thrift shop. When I had finished, I was left with Bobbie's statue of the Buddha, a small brass pot for holding incense, two rather plain candlesticks, and the remaining ceramic vase.

There were also the things Bobbie had had hanging on the wall behind the altar: a scroll containing some carefully-painted Chinese characters and a round yin-yang symbol. This last item was rather interesting. About five inches in diameter, it was made from a multitude of very tiny beads, almost surely hand-sewn onto a fabric background. A short tassel of rainbow-colored beads hung from the bottom, adding a spray of color to the stark black and white of the design.

While I figured I'd hang onto the scroll at least long enough to find out what it said before deciding whether or not to discard it, the fate of the yin-yang was never in question. I'd gotten to like it and had read up on its meanings, so that was a definite keeper.

Have you noticed how this symbol has been appearing more and more often on jewelry lately? Especially the inexpensive stuff that young folks are likely to wear? I've got a piece myself. I think it's meant to be an earring, but I've been wearing it on my lab coat as a lapel pin. 

It even comes in colors that supposedly change as your mood changes, and in friendship rings and pendants, where you keep one half and give the other half to a special friend. That last usage strikes me as somewhat incongruous, since the whole point of the symbol is that the two halves don't come apart. In fact, that very aspect of it always seems to me to be the most difficult part of the philosophy. You don't get the one without the other. I never have gotten used to that idea. I wanted the light without the shadow. I wanted the good without the bad, the pleasure without the pain, the highs without the lows. But, as surely as the night follows the day, the morning after inevitably follows the night before. One way or another, you pay. The wise person realizes this and at least expects it, if they cannot prevent it. The fool hasn't learned that lesson yet.

I was still working on being a fool, but I was beginning to recognize that fact.

I stood up, stretching the kinks out of stiff muscles. Still thinking about the yin-yang, I reached out with the tip of one finger, tracing the edge of the curving line dividing the white side from the black. While doing so, it struck me that it really isn't this clear-cut and distinct. That's only the static version, the only way we can represent such a complex concept in a simple design. It turns, and the sharp edges blur into each other. Black and white become gray, which is more or less what we're accustomed to dealing with in the real world out there.

The wheel turns, the circle spins. You may be able to drive it upwards into a spiral path, if you try hard enough. But, even in classical physics, the potential energy gained by moving something upwards is equal to the kinetic energy expended to get it there against the pull of gravity. The higher you fly, the further there is for you to fall. And the faster you'll be going when you hit the ground.

A shiver ran down my spine at that idea and I withdrew my finger.

I was still staring at the yin-yang and thinking my profound thoughts when I heard the tiger growl behind me.

I spun around to find Bon Bon Hai standing just inside the closed door. He smiled his mirthless smile and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Oh no, not you again," I said in dismay. "Last time I ran into you, you told me you were going to come after Caine yourself, rather than offering money to other people to kill him, as you had been doing. What happened? You chicken out?"

He frowned as he crossed the room. "No. I still intend to kill the troublesome priest. But I have decided to destroy him first."

"You're not making a lot of sense, pal."

"You will understand, in time. But first I have something to show you."

He held out a manila envelope.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

I did, and found myself confronted with a dozen 8X10 photos of myself, in what I can only describe as a number of compromising positions.

Okay, you're not going to let me leave it at that, are you? I didn't think so. Remember when I said I'd gotten a little crazy after Bobbie died? Among other things, I'd gotten involved in a couple of BDSM scenes.

You know about BDSM? Well, if you don't, perhaps it's because you don't want to know.

I'll bet you've got me pegged as the party on the receiving end of the punishment too, haven't you? Well, think again, folks. Maybe I'm not real macho most of the time, but you ought to see what I can do with a fantasy scenario. I can and do play it from either side.

I looked closer at the photos, trying to recall what had been going on at the time they'd been taken. Oh yeah, that was the rich Japanese guy with the interesting tattoos who had been into some pretty heavy stuff. In fact, it had been a little heavier scene than I had bargained for. Maybe I'd gotten a trifle carried away, but my partner had certainly seemed to like what I was doing. He'd wanted me to play samurai. He was my captive and I was trying to force him to betray his lord by torturing him.

I looked downright vicious in a couple of those photos, what with the black kimono and swords and all. (Well, I suppose I'd have looked more vicious without my glasses, but that can't be helped.) I also looked pretty -- shall we say, excited? -- in subsequent shots, when I had opened my kimono in order to get down to the business at hand.

And someone had been taking pictures the entire time?!

I had a very bad feeling about this.

"There is a videotape also," Bon Bon Hai said, adding to my sense of foreboding. "What do you think would happen if something like this ended up in the wrong hands? For instance, your supervisor at the hospital, Kevin Willis. I imagine he would find these pictures most entertaining. Or perhaps your friend the priest would enjoy watching such a tape?"

"Caine doesn't have a VCR," I replied inanely.

"No matter. The photos would be sufficient."

Yeah. More than sufficient to convince a Shaolin priest that I wasn't worth his friendship, much less his respect.

"What is it you want me to do?"

"Caine has offered to be your teacher, has he not?"

I nodded, wondering how he could possibly know about that.

"I wish you to accept his offer. While you are with him, you will find ways to maneuver him into positions which look as if you are doing something other than fighting with each other."

I must have looked totally puzzled, because he went on cheerily, "There will be a photographer in a nearby building waiting to take advantage of the opportunities you will create."

I guess my brain wasn't in high gear that morning, because the full impact of what he was saying took a while to penetrate. It took me until now to realize that he wanted it to appear as if Caine and I were lovers.

"What would that get you?" I asked, still rather confused.

Bon Bon Hai held up the sheaf of photos. "Something very much like what these have gotten me."

"You're gonna blackmail Caine too? I don't think that'll work. He'd just deny it. You'd have to get some much more explicit pictures than we've been discussing before anyone would believe you rather than him."

"Ah, but I shall not give the priest a chance to deny it, because he will never know of it."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you here."

"Kwai Chang Caine is respected and admired by many important and powerful people in Chinatown. His influence in the community is growing. If I were to go to some of the local leaders in private, show them the pictures you're going to help me get, and imply that Caine is something very different from what he seems, that he is not worthy of their respect and support --"

Bon Bon Hai left it hanging, but I filled in the sentence for him, saying bitterly, "Because he's not only queer but pretty kinky to boot. Yeah, I see what you have in mind. And it just might work, because no one would dare to confront him about it. Hell, they'd probably be too polite. But word would get out and he'd lose his following."

"You are cleverer than I had thought."

"If that's meant to be a compliment, I'd rather you stuck to insulting me."

He almost laughed. Then he turned serious again. "The priest will never know what happened, but he will find himself without influence, spurned by those who once honored him and turned away by the ones who had been his friends. It is only then that I will move in for the kill. This way, there is no chance he will become a martyr."

"I might tell him about all this," I suggested.

"I think not." He flourished the packet of photos again. The son-of-a-bitch had me cornered, and we both knew it. I could betray Caine, or I could destroy my life and everything I'd worked so hard for. If I'd had the least shred of honor, I'd have told Bon Bon Hai to go fuck himself. I didn't. I couldn't.

"I am certain you will wish to give this matter some thought." With what I'm sure was intentional disdain, he set the photos on top of my altar table. "You may inform me of your decision tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? How am I supposed to do that?"

"You will know."

I blinked my eyes and the tiger was there again.

"Yeah, right. I'll come visit you in the zoo, along with the rest of the animals."

The tiger growled as it stalked out of my room. Guess he'd heard that last comment.

I walked over and plucked the damn photos off my altar. No use tearing them up. He would have copies. And a videotape.

I sank down to the floor and buried my head in my hands. How on earth was I going to get out of this mess?

 

When the next day came, I was still without an answer to that question. But I had figured out how Bon Bon Hai would learn whether or not I had decided to go along with his plan. I was supposed to meet Caine for lunch and tell him whether I wanted to become his student. If I took him up on his offer, Bon Bon Hai would conclude I intended to do as he wished me to. I never for a moment doubted that he had a way to know whatever I told Caine in the restaurant. Oh, shit!

 

As I waited outside the Ming Chun House, there was a stampeding herd of butterflies in my stomach that made me wonder if I'd even be able to eat. I was too early and stood fidgeting on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. I hadn't come up with any good way out of this. The only thing I could think of to do was to go along with what Bon Bon Hai wanted and try to stall for time. The smile on my face felt phony even to me as I caught sight of Caine coming down the street and greeted him with attempted nonchalance.

"I am ... glad you could make it," he said.

Oh god, I'm not! Not under these circumstances! I wanted to scream. All I said was, "Yeah."

As we walked inside, I was abruptly distracted from the turmoil in my mind by the apparent chaos reigning within the restaurant. The aisles were filled with small carts of food pushed by attendants who circulated constantly between tables, serving whatever was requested. I'd never been in a Chinese restaurant where anything like this was going on, so it took my preoccupied brain a few minutes to sort out the confusion. Meanwhile, the hostess had seen Caine, greeted him with a smile and a bow, which he returned, and led us to a spot in the corner. They exchanged a few phrases in Chinese as we sat down on opposite sides of the table. Almost immediately, a waiter appeared with a pot of tea and three cups, so I assumed Caine had said someone else would soon be joining us.

When the first pushcart approached, I looked it over quickly and realized I had no earthly idea what was on it. Most of the food looked like a variation on your basic dumpling, but I had no way of knowing what might be inside those dumplings.

"I don't know what most of this stuff is," I admitted. "You order for me, huh?"

He nodded, then spoke briefly with the man pushing the cart, who went away without serving us anything. "I asked if they would be ... kind enough to wait until the rest of our party arrived," he explained. "Would you like some tea?"

I nodded. He had barely finished filling our cups when he glanced up and caught sight of someone. He was looking sort of past my shoulder and beyond me, and I saw his face change. Oh, not a whole lot. After all, his expression doesn't change very much, regardless of what he feels. But his eyes lit up and the edges of his mouth almost decided to smile. I'd never seen him look at anyone quite that way, but I knew what it meant, even before the object of his attention moved into my line of sight.

An attractive woman with long dark hair sat down at our table. For the first instant, I thought I didn't know her. Then I remembered. We had met briefly at the AIDS Quilt display, before Bobbie had died. At that time, Peter had introduced her as Detective Mary Margaret Skalany, his sometime partner.

"Hi," she said cheerfully, holding out a slender hand. "Jeremy, right?"

I nodded and took the proffered hand. She had a surprisingly strong grip, for a woman.

"Glad to see you again." She glanced down at our teacups. "Am I late?"

"No," Caine hastened to assure her, his eyes never leaving her face. "We were ... early."

They smiled at each other, then he placed his hand over hers where it rested on the table.

You're welcome to draw your own conclusions, of course. But I figured I knew what was, or soon would be, going on between Caine and this very lovely detective, even if they hadn't quite realized it yet.

When I know something is totally beyond my reach, I've learned not to be terribly jealous. I could actually find it in my heart to be glad, for both of them.

Much to my relief, Mary Margaret was as much adrift in this sea of Chinese cuisine as I was, so Caine ended up choosing items from the various pushcarts for both of us, consulting us from time to time for food preferences. I'm afraid I can't say everything he chose was delicious. Most of the flavors were simply too foreign for me to be sure if I liked them or not on first encounter.

Mary Margaret's presence served to distract Caine from paying too close attention to me, which was fine, under the circumstances. I listened in silence as Caine filled her in on the plans for Bobbie's Quilt panel. She offered to help, which further endeared her to me. I'm afraid I didn't exactly keep up my end of the conversation, since I was pretty much preoccupied with other thoughts, but at least I managed to deal with the chopsticks with a certain amount of expertise, despite the remaining stiffness in my wrist.

Even though he had the major portion of his attention on his lady, Caine actually noticed this. "You ... are doing better with the chopsticks, Jeremy," he said at one point.

Yeah. The first time I'd eaten in a Chinese restaurant with him had been in Niagara Falls, and I'd dropped a couple of things in my lap way back then.

I reacted to the compliment with a very Caine-like shrug, then said in a fair imitation of his usual speech pattern, "I have ... practiced ... a lot."

Mary Margaret laughed. Caine looked at her in pretended indignation, but I could tell he was trying not to laugh too.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, then Caine brought up the subject I wanted fervently to avoid.

"Jeremy may wish to learn kung fu. I have offered to teach him."

He glanced at me expectantly. That was obviously my cue to let him know what I had decided.

Bon Bon Hai aside, I still wasn't too sure about all this. "I dunno. When it comes to athletic ability, someone else must have gotten my share."

"I believe you once told me you had studied karate for a time, as a child?" Caine said.

"Yeah, but that was my father's idea. I was never real good at it. I actually wanted to study ballet, or maybe tap dancing, but my dad figured that was for sissies, and I was enough of a sissy as it was."

But I had to take Caine up on his offer, or Bon Bon Hai would ruin me. "How about if I started with something less strenuous? Like maybe T'ai Chi?"

"That ... would be fine."

"Okay," Mary Margaret chimed in. "Now that that's been decided, how about that Quilt panel you mentioned? How much material do you need? What color? What kind of fabric?"

I pulled out the page of instructions I'd gotten from the Names Project, which is the organization in charge of the Quilt, and gave it to Mary Margaret, who promptly translated the general guidelines into practical suggestions.

I let myself get caught up in the details, trying hard to forget that I had just agreed to betray Caine. I figured I now knew pretty much how Judas must have felt, and it wasn't a nice feeling at all.

To make a long story short, we spent the rest of Mary Margaret's lunch break purchasing fabric and sewing supplies. She had to go back to the precinct, but Caine and I took everything over to my place to start the preliminary measuring and cutting.

I hadn't decided yet on all the details of the design, but the background fabric was a heavy white cotton and I knew I wanted to make the letters of Bobbie's name from some medium-green velveteen I'd bought, so we began with that. We first drew the letters on paper, then cut them out and used them as guides to cut the velveteen.

When the fabric for the panel was actually spread out on the floor to its full 3 X 6 feet, I realized just how big a job this was likely to be. All those letters needed to be turned under and hemmed, then stitched onto the white cotton.

I looked up at Caine, who was diligently plying the scissors around one of the B's. "Does Mary Margaret happen to have a sewing machine? Perhaps she'd do this for us," I suggested.

Caine shrugged and kept cutting, both at the same time. "It will have more ... meaning, if you do it yourself."

"I guess you're right. But it's going to take quite a while that way."

"There is ... no hurry," was the quiet response.

We didn't say too much else as we sat there on the floor. Actually working on Bobbie's panel brought back too many memories and I just didn't trust myself to speak. Every time I glanced over at Caine, a fresh wave of self-disgust swept over me. How could I do this to him? I should refuse. I should tell Bon Bon Hai to go to hell. (And let him show those photos, so you lose Caine, your job, your friends, your self-respect?) (What self-respect, Jeremy, you idiot?)

When we'd finished cutting out the letters, Caine took a few sheets of paper and a pencil from my desk and asked, "What ... do you wish the rest of this to look like?"

I really wasn't sure. While I knew the jade ring had to be a part of it, I couldn't decide what else to include.

Seeing my indecision, Caine asked tentatively, "Would you like Bobbie's name to appear in Chinese characters also?"

"Yeah. I think he would have liked that." Then I frowned. "But it would be pretty hard to cut that out and sew it on, wouldn't it? The English letters are already becoming quite a project."

"It is ... not a problem. I can paint them onto the fabric, if you wish."

"How would that look?"

He did a quick sketch, putting Bobbie's English name over to the left and then adding a row of Chinese characters down the right side of the panel.

"I like it. How about if we put the English name in a slight curve, instead of on a straight line?"

So Caine drew it that way, with "Bobbie" on top and "Ling" beneath it. He glanced up at me for approval.

"Yeah. Good. Now, the ring can go down here, under the curve. But how can we attach it securely?"

We finally came up with the idea of a clear plastic pocket to keep the ring safe, sewn down around the edges with green embroidery thread. I made a note to go out and buy what we'd need for that later.

By now it was getting on towards late afternoon. Figuring I'd used up enough of Caine's time already, I suggested we call it a day. He was agreeable to that, but first we set up a schedule for the T'ai Chi lessons I was to take. My heart wasn't really in that, thanks to Bon Bon Hai, and I knew Caine was sure to notice. I hoped he'd assume I was just bummed out over working on Bobbie's panel, which was true up to a point.

As I walked him to the door, Caine put his arm around my shoulder.

"Do not worry, Jeremy. It will be ... all right," he said, just before he gave me a quick hug.

All I could think of as he walked out the door was "Oh jeez! What if he does that when Bon Bon Hai's photographer has us in his sights?"

 

So it was that I became one of Caine's students. Much to my delight, it turned out that I wasn't as totally inept at T'ai Chi as I had feared. Not that I can take too much credit for that, you understand. It was just that many of the moves and stances were familiar to me because of my forced stint as a martial artist as a kid. No, I hadn't been great at it even then, but, as I struggled to duplicate Caine's movements, my body remembered what I thought my mind had long ago forgotten.

Despite my guilt, I greatly enjoyed spending two hours twice a week with Caine, as the sole focus of his attention. I stopped drinking and wasn't even tempted to go out and screw around anywhere near as often as I had been doing. It just seemed that the urge wasn't as strong anymore. But then again, perhaps it had merely been refocused.

And no, I hadn't forgotten Bobbie. I remembered him all too well every night I went home alone to my apartment and saw the bits and pieces of his Quilt panel in neatly-folded piles around my living room. At this stage of the game, just thinking about the Quilt depressed me. (Did you know it already contains some 70,000 names? And that amounts to only about one fifth of all the AIDS deaths in America. Heaven knows what the statistics are world-wide, or what they're going to be before this epidemic is over. If that isn't depressing, I don't know what is.)

During the course of our lessons, I made a few half-hearted attempts to do what Bon Bon Hai wanted, but it wasn't all that easy. Perhaps if I had been trying to learn judo instead, that would have generated a lot more opportunities for some easily-misconstrued photos, since judo involves fairly close physical contact with your opponent. T'ai Chi simply wasn't as good for my underlying purpose, something which I hoped Bon Bon Hai would take into consideration as I continued to fail at my assigned task.

This state of affairs dragged on for over a month. Although I took great delight in my lessons, I was at the same time totally wretched because I knew what was to be the final outcome of these lessons. Caine was a terrific teacher, endlessly patient with my fumbling attempts to learn the various positions. He even managed not to laugh every time I stumbled over my own feet.

Once a young woman by the name of Cheryl joined us for a session. She was good! I got the impression she was some sort of protege of Caine's but I could have been mistaken.

My progress on Bobbie's panel during this time was about the same as my progress at T'ai Chi: slow but steady. A seamstress I'm not, and I've already told you how just the thought of it bummed me out. Nevertheless, I had almost finished stitching the letters onto the background fabric. It looked pretty good, and would look even better once Caine had added the Chinese calligraphy. But that still left a lot of empty space to fill, even after taking the jade ring into consideration.

 

Late spring gave way to early summer. Children were playing in the wading pool in the small park across the street from where I lived when Mary Margaret stopped by unexpectedly to ask how I was doing with the sewing.

As it happened, I was working on the final letter that very day, so she stayed to watch and chat with me while I completed the job.

I didn't know her real well at the time, so it took me entirely by surprise when she said, out of a clear blue sky, "You like him too, don't you?"

I stuck my finger with the needle, but went right on sewing, carefully not looking up at her. "Did he tell you that?"

"No. He didn't have to."

"Yeah, I like him," I admitted. "But don't worry. I'm no competition for you," I went on, trying to make light of the matter.

Before she could reply, the phone rang. I rushed to pick it up, thankful for the diversion, until I recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

"I am not a patient man, Jeremy. If you cannot do better soon, your boss will be receiving the package we spoke of. You wouldn't like that, would you?"

"No," I replied shortly. "I'll get you what you want."

"I am glad to hear that."

The phone went dead. I hung up the receiver.

Mary Margaret came over and took my arm. "Jeremy? What's wrong? You're white as a ghost."

"It's nothing. Just a -- problem at work, that's all."

I could tell she wasn't buying that, but she didn't probe any further. She just nodded and said, "Speaking of work, I guess I ought to get back to the precinct. You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks for stopping by. You're welcome here anytime." I tried for a grin. "After all, any friend of Caine's --"

She smiled and gave my arm a squeeze before leaving.

 

I went to my next lesson knowing full well that this was it. I'd have to come up with something that would satisfy Bon Bon Hai, or I was in deep shit. I had a pretty good idea how to go about it, too. All I needed to do was fake a little accident, like maybe trip and fall down at some point during our practice session, then pretend to be hurt. I knew Caine would be down on the floor with me in a second, trying to find out what was wrong and doing what he could to fix me up.

As you may or may not have noticed, the process of caring for someone who is injured can appear almost sexual, if it's presented properly. The necessity of touching the injured person, perhaps putting your arms around them to lift them up, and all that sort of thing can give the impression of a sexual encounter. Even the expression on the face of someone in pain can mimic sexual ecstasy. I figured I could use this fact to my own advantage and give the damn photographer whatever opportunities he might need.

But I purely hated myself for what I was about to do, make no mistake about that. I'm not much of an actor, but I knew I could pretend to be in pain fairly easily, considering the agony that was raging in my heart and soul at the prospect of so cravenly betraying the one man in the world that I held in the highest regard. It would serve me right if he hated me for it. But then, Caine would never know what I'd done, would he? Not unless he could read my mind, and I really didn't think he could manage that, despite the uncanny insight he could show at times.

He sure knew something was wrong, though, even if he didn't know precisely what it was. I saw the way he glanced at me when he thought I wasn't looking, as we practiced the first half-dozen or so movements of the form we were learning. (And he had said this was the short form. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to know what the long form was like!)

"Jeremy, ... you are not concentrating. Something ... is wrong?"

"No," I said quickly, knowing I'd have to throw him off this track somehow. "I guess I'm just not getting this. I'm too old. I'll never be any good at it."

He shrugged. "It is ... not important how far you get. What matters is the path you choose to follow."

I nodded, trying to act as if I believed him.

"Come. I will demonstrate the moves once more, then you will do them."

Watching him run through the beginning of the form, a strange thought intruded itself into my head. It all seemed so easy for him, as if it took no effort at all. But was that really true?

When he stopped, I caught his eye and asked softly. "Caine, all this comes with a price tag, doesn't it?"

"What ... do you mean?"

I waved my hand to take in the practice room, which also doubled as his meditation room.

"All of it: the martial arts, the impossible stuff I've seen you do, even the peace you seem to have found. None of it came without cost, did it? I mean, even the karate lessons I had as a kid: what little I learned came only after a lot of effort and bruises. And that's just on a physical level. I'm not even going to speculate on the spiritual part of it. Am I right?"

"Yes." He was quiet for a moment before he went on. "Most people ... do not notice this."

"Yeah, well, maybe I've paid for a few things myself. Maybe I'm still paying." And maybe I'm going to pay even more, I thought wretchedly. "It never really ends, does it?"

"No, Jeremy," he replied. "It ... does not."

I closed my eyes and shook my head in an effort to dispel the solemnity of the moment. Better get on with this, before I chickened out.

"Okay, my turn to give it a try," I said gamely, stepping over a little nearer to one of the windows along the side wall. If I was going to do this, I might as well be sure the photographer could get a clear view of the action.

Keeping to the frustratingly-slow rhythm of T'ai Chi, I went through the opening moves. When I reached the part where you've got your arms out in front of you and you've got to swing around and go sort of pigeon-toed for a moment, I deliberately shifted my weight wrong, tangled my feet together, and tumbled ungracefully backwards in the general direction of the window.

I had planned on a fairly clean fall, after which I would feign having the breath knocked out of me. What actually happened was that I miscalculated the distance and ended up striking the back of my head on the window ledge as I went down.

After that inauspicious beginning, there was no need to pretend to be in pain. As the explosion of stars cleared away, I knew I had Caine right where I wanted him. He was kneeling on the floor, holding me against his chest with one arm under my shoulders, while the other hand carefully explored the back of my skull. I could feel his silk shirt on my cheek. That had to be a pretty good pose, so I held it as long as I could, pretending to be more dazed than I actually was.

Unfortunately, what should have been merely pretense turned out to be just a little too close to reality, at least as far as I was concerned. Despite the throbbing pain in my head, I purely loved the feel of his arms around me. My traitorous imagination wasn't helping matters any, since it insisted on showing me lots of very desirable endings to my carefully-staged and thus far successful scenario.

If I dared to make the attempt, was there even a ghost of a chance that Caine would respond? Perhaps I was wrong to think he was irrevocably straight. After all, quite a few supposedly straight men aren't above a little fooling around now and again. I myself would consider sex with a woman under the right circumstances. (Hadn't I been married, many years ago? And there had been the occasional female since then.) Possibly Caine would be willing to be, shall we say, flexible? Or at the least, might he not be just a little curious?

What did I have to lose? Bon Bon Hai was going to make me out to be Caine's lover anyway; why not make the lie into the truth? As well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, right?

It wouldn't have been very hard to do. He was so close to me already; all I needed was a few more inches. I could easily pull myself up far enough to kiss him, and see how it went from there. Even if I got a negative response, I could still feign dazed incomprehension of what I was doing and apologize profusely a moment later, after I had supposedly regained my senses. Why, I could even say I'd been confused enough to mistake him for Bobbie, couldn't I?

If nothing else, I'd at least have gotten Bon Bon Hai his damned photos and I could stop this ridiculous charade.

My fingers clutched at Caine's shirt as I pulled myself closer against him. Give me half a chance and I could make him want me. I knew I could. But should I? Especially under these circumstances? No, of course not. I was insane to even think such a thing. But, oh god, how I wanted to!

Balanced on the knife edge of temptation, I just lay there, as he continued to probe the bump on my head with gentle fingers.

Would I really try such a thing? With Kwai Chang Caine, who had saved my life more than once, and to whom I owed more than I could hope to repay in one lifetime? When it came right down to it, had I truly fallen so low that I could repay his trust with this betrayal? Had I so little honor left, that I would even consider it?

I pushed him away and jumped to my feet.

Leaving Caine staring after me in blank amazement, I raced out the door and down the stairs, mumbling, "Oh, shit, shit, shit!" between the sobs I couldn't suppress.

Once outside, I continued to run, getting into my car and driving to my apartment.

I was in the bathroom scrubbing my face and trying to compose myself when I heard the front door open. My head still hurt, but I didn't feel any blood and the pain had turned into a dull ache.

"Jeremy?" Caine's voice called softly.

How had he gotten in? I knew that door was locked. I always locked my doors. Besides, I'd barely been home for ten minutes, and here he was already. The man never ceases to amaze me. I dried my eyes, put my glasses back on, and went into the other room to face the inevitable.

"Why did you run away?" he asked, as soon as he saw me. "What ... is wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. I mean, I bumped my head, but --"

Forget it. You don't lie to Caine. I looked away, ashamed to meet his eyes. "I can't tell you," was the best I could come up with.

I heard him sigh. Then he put one hand on my shoulder and pointed at the scroll above my still-disarranged altar.

"Will you not ... take the advice which hangs on your own wall?"

"That was Bobbie's. I don't know what it means," I admitted, all too willing to get him started on a different subject.

"'The one who does not trust enough will not be trusted'," he translated. "It is from ... the Tao Te Ching."

Somehow I kind of figured that. But why had Bobbie picked that particular verse? It must have had some sort of special meaning to him that I didn't know about.

Yeah. And what meaning did it have for me, who was usually pretty short on trust? I'd been stabbed in the back too many times in my life, after all.

True enough. But never by Kwai Chang Caine.

"Are you real sure you want to know?" I asked him, half hoping he'd say no.

Unfortunately, he nodded.

Before I could change my mind, I pulled the manila envelope from my desk drawer and handed it over to him. Caine took out the photos and leafed through them slowly, as I flung myself down on the sofa and tried very hard to die of shame so that I wouldn't have to face him.

"Perhaps you would ... explain ... about these pictures?" he asked at last.

Well, that wasn't the worst thing he could have said, under the circumstances.

"You really want to know what was going on?"

"I ... would not have asked, ... if I did not wish to know."

So I told him, in perhaps more detail than was absolutely necessary. I figured he was either going to listen and understand, or he was going to walk out on me forever. Either way, it would be for the truth, not for a lie or a mealy-mouthed cover-up.

I didn't have the guts to look at him directly as I talked, but I was watching out of the corner of my eye. His expression didn't change in the least, regardless of what I said or how explicit my descriptions became. He didn't frown, nor did he look particularly uncomfortable or upset. But then again, he never does, does he?

"Jeremy, ..." he said after I had finished, "are you ashamed of all this? Do you feel you have done wrong?"

That wasn't what I expected to hear. It took me a moment to answer, since I had to think about it. Was I ashamed?

"Uh -- no. Not really. To be perfectly honest, I don't see a lot of harm in this sort of thing. But I know most folks think it's pretty sick."

"Tell me ... why I should not agree with them."

I wasn't sure what I heard in his voice when he said that. Was it censure, or an honest request for information? Before I could decide, he went on, "How is this different from what Alice did to you, when she kidnapped you shortly before Bobbie died?"

"Well, for one thing, Alice had every intention of killing me! And she didn't exactly ask if I wanted to be hurt. A true criminal sadist isn't the same as a person who engages in BDSM for sexual satisfaction."

He looked just the slightest bit puzzled, if you can believe that. I had realized some time ago that Caine isn't as naive as he often seems, but perhaps he really didn't quite get this, since it was pretty much outside his experience.

Cocking his head to one side, he held out the photo of me whacking my bound and gagged "prisoner" across the butt with the flat side of my samurai sword. Mind you, the edge was dull; I couldn't have seriously sliced him up, even by accident. But the welts across his backside stood out in vivid streaks of red. (Of course, that wasn't the only thing standing out vividly, but you couldn't tell that from the angle of this particular picture.)

Caine asked skeptically, “This ... is done willingly ... and brings pleasure?"

"Oh, yeah."

He didn't appear totally convinced, so I decided to use his own previous argument against him. "Caine? We've been talking a lot about trust here. How much do you trust me? You know me pretty well. Do you truly believe I'd do that to someone if they didn't want me to?"

He met my eyes pretty squarely then. After an endless moment, he shook his head. And I started breathing again.

He leafed through to a few later pictures, which rather graphically showed just how much my victim was enjoying what I was doing. He raised one eyebrow a fraction.

I took that as my cue to explain further.

"Look, I'm not trying to convince you to go out and try this sort of thing. It's not for everyone. All I'm saying is that it isn't as truly vicious as it can appear. It's an elaborate game with its own set of rules, and it's played with the full consent of both partners. There's no force involved, and no one really gets hurt. Well, no more than they want to, anyway."

He nodded, but still looked a bit doubtful. "I will ... take your word for it," he said at last. Placing the photos on my desk, he sat down next to me on the couch and made one of those intuitive jumps he does so well.

"There is ... more to this than you have told me, is there not?"

I squirmed. "Yeah. But I'm not sure I can tell you the rest."

"Jeremy, ..." he said, pointing at the scroll on the wall, "that does not mean you must ... trust all people at all times. But you must trust enough." His emphasis was on the final word.

"Good point," I conceded. "But how much is enough?"

"That is something ... only you yourself can know."

He looked at me expectantly.

Did I dare tell him the rest of it? And yet, was there anyone on this earth I had more reason to trust than Caine? Somehow, I didn't think so." 

"You're right. There's more."

So I told him how Bon Bon Hai wanted me to set him up for some incriminating photos, and how he'd blackmailed me into helping.

"Such a thing would never have worked," Caine said with a skeptical frown when I had finished. "No one would believe I was gay ... if I simply denied it."

"No, you don't quite get the idea. You wouldn't have known what Bon Bon Hai was doing, so you'd never get a chance to tell the truth." I put it in terms I knew he'd understand. "If no one ever attacks, you have no chance to defend yourself, do you?"

"I ... see what you mean."

"So what do I do now?" I asked desperately.

"Tell Bon Bon Hai that ... the photos do not matter."

"Don't matter?! Are you crazy?"

"I do not ... think so." He put one hand on my shoulder. "Jeremy, ... consider: if you refuse to do what Bon Bon Hai wishes, what is the worst thing he can do?"

"I already told you that. He can send those photos to my boss."

"And ...?"

"Kevin will fire me."

"Why?"

He couldn't possibly be that naive. He had to have another point. "He'll despise me --" I waved one hand at the incriminating pictures -- "for doing that."

"Has he fired you for being gay?"

"Well, no," I admitted.

"Yet he knows, does he not?"

"I suppose so. People always seem to know, somehow. Besides, I never tried to hide it."

"And he has not fired you?"

"True. But this is different."

Caine shrugged. "You told me about it. I do not despise you."

"I'm kind of surprised you don't!" I blurted out.

"You have ... explained to me how it works. There is nothing despicable here. Unusual, perhaps ..." His mouth tightened a fraction and his eyes narrowed. It was a very subtle change, but it made my hair stand on end as he went on sternly, "but I have seen far worse torture done for far less a reason than sexual pleasure."

Hmm. Maybe he had gotten the idea after all.

With what appeared to be an effort, he rearranged his face into its usual pattern of calm tranquility before suggesting, "It is possible Bon Bon Hai will not bother to use the photos as he has threatened."

"Why not?"

Caine did his characteristic shrug. "What would he gain, once he has lost your cooperation?"

"Humph. He'd probably do it out of spite."

"I ... do not think so. I know this man far better than you do. There is a chance he would not follow through, ... when he sees there is no advantage in doing so."

"Okay, a chance. But there's also a good chance he would. What then?"

He spread his hands. "How much do you trust your boss to understand?"

I really had to think about that. Kevin had been very good to me, as far as gay went. But the rest of it? "That's expecting a lot from him," I replied slowly. "I dunno. Maybe yes, maybe no."

Caine considered that for a moment. "In any case," he concluded, "you have lost nothing that has not already been lost when you told me of this. You can no longer ... deliver the goods, as I think my son might say. But Bon Bon Hai does not know this. He also cannot know how far you would trust Kevin."

"True enough." I could almost believe Caine's crazy suggestion might work. I nodded and said hopefully, "So you think I stand a good chance of bluffing my way through this?"

"Yes. But you must be prepared for him to ... call your bluff. And you must live with the consequences."

"I'm not real good at bluffing. Especially when I'm not holding any of the cards."

"But you do ... hold cards. There is your belief that Kevin is a kind and just man, whether or not he shares your ... sexual preferences? Your conviction that you have done nothing wrong, even if many people would disapprove."

Well, he did have a point there. "You may be right," I replied slowly. "And I've got one more card you didn't mention."

"What ... is that?"

"You."

He shrugged.

"Seems like I'd be going awfully far out on a limb." But I knew I'd do as he said, even as I objected. After all, how many other options did I have?

"That ... is true. There can be no ... guarantees of what other people will do."

My eye fell once more on the scroll that had gotten me into this conversation in the first place. I turned to Caine and said with an absolutely straight face, "Then I guess it's kind of like Confucius says: 'The one who goes barefoot must be prepared to sometimes step in shit'."

"Confucius ... never said that," he replied, a look of perplexed consternation coming over his face.

"I know." I looked pointedly down at his callused and dirty bare feet before I went on. "But he should have, shouldn't he?"

Caine followed my gaze, then smiled.

"Perhaps," he allowed softly.

 

For a week after that, I kept strictly away from my T'ai Chi lessons, skipping two classes in a row. We had decided this would be a good way to make Bon Bon Hai contact me again, so I could tell him I wasn't going through with his scheme.

Nothing happened. Maybe the son-of-a-bitch had found better things to do than concern himself with me, and this whole mess would just blow over with no harm done. That would have suited me just fine.

I'd been working a lot of extra hours at the hospital, so when I finally got a day off, I fully intended to put in some more time on Bobbie's Quilt panel. It was nearing completion now. Caine had done the calligraphy a couple of weeks ago, and I had only to work on the pocket for the ring.

However, I had barely begun measuring the plastic when I got sidetracked by another neglected project. Ever since that fateful meeting with Bon Bon Hai, I had done nothing more about Bobbie's altar. Everything lay pretty much as I had left it, except where I'd pushed things back out of my way. As a general rule, I can't stand clutter, so I'm really not sure why I had left it for so long. Maybe I had just been too uptight about what was going on. Or maybe finally re-designing the altar was kind of like finally finishing the panel: in both cases, it would mean Bobbie was really and truly gone. And in both cases, I had to admit I'd been dragging my feet.

Whatever the reason, this morning it really bugged me to see this disorderly mess. I set aside the sheet of plastic, promising myself this wouldn't take long and I'd get back to it shortly.

With unaccustomed decision, I put the few items I had determined to get rid of into a paper bag, setting the bag next to the door so I'd remember to take it to the thrift shop.

There. That wasn't so hard.

Now for the stuff I wanted to keep.

I believe I already mentioned that Bobbie had a wooden statue of the Buddha. I had left it sitting on the floor for so long that it had gathered a layer of dust, so I fetched a rag and polished it up a bit before placing it in the middle of the altar table.

It wasn't the usual pose you'd associate with a statue of that sort, and that's exactly what had made me curious enough to look through a couple of library books to find out the significance, if any, of the way the Buddha had been depicted sitting cross-legged with his left palm turned upwards in his lap while his right hand reached beyond his knee to touch the ground just in front of him.

What I discovered was that Bobbie's statue illustrated Gautama's victory over the demon Mara, when the demon tried to shake his confidence and throw him off the spot where he sat in meditation by claiming that Gautama had no one to bear witness to his merit. The man reached down and touched the ground, summoning the earth itself to bear witness to the fact that he had every right to the place on which he sat. The earth did as requested, in no uncertain terms, with earthquakes and floods. Thus came about the conquest of Mara, a precursor to Gautama's later enlightenment.

Something about the legend struck a chord with me. Perhaps it was nothing more complex than the idea of having a right to your place, your life, your self, despite the clamor of events and circumstances trying to tell you otherwise.

Then again, perhaps it was merely the look of confident peace on the face of the little statue that won it its place in my heart. I wished just once that I could look that way, and mean it.

Gazing at that placid expression, I suddenly realized that there was something else that belonged on my altar. I went into my bedroom and rummaged through the bottom drawer of my dresser until I found the small cloth-wrapped bundle I had kept with me ever since that last time I had parted with Caine, close to four years ago now. We had driven clear across the country together, having a few adventures along the way, then I had left him, unwillingly and unhappily, at the ruins of his Temple, after we'd spent the night there. (And almost gotten ourselves killed in the process. But I've already told you about that, haven't I?)

Anyway, I had taken one of the half-burned candles from the Temple, more or less on an impulse. Now I knew why I had taken it and where it was meant to be.

Unwrapping it from the purple and gold bandanna, -- and there's a story behind that too, you know -- I placed the thick candle on one side of my makeshift altar and lit it carefully with a match, then lit a stick of incense from the flame and stuck it into the little sand-filled brass pot.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork, making a note to get some fresh flowers for the vase I had placed in the corner opposite from the candle.

"Very pretty, my friend," came Bon Bon Hai's mocking voice from behind me.

I spun around in shock, then gathered my wits and scowled. "What do you want?"

"What I have wanted all along, of course. Why have you stopped going to Caine's classes? I thought you were remarkably successful during that last encounter."

"Yeah. Maybe a little too successful."

I took a deep breath in a futile effort to still my pounding heart. Okay, Jeremy, time to get this over with, one way or another.

"I'm through playing your little game. I'm not going to do it."

"Need I remind you of the photos?" my adversary replied smoothly.

"You can do whatever you want with them, up to and including putting them in the place where the sun doesn't shine."

I could see he didn't like that much, but he still thought he had me. "Then you are truly ready to throw away your job, your friends, your honor?"

"What honor?" I replied bitterly. "I was going to betray Caine to you. There's no honor in that. Better the whole world turns against me than that I continue on such a despicable path."

The other man shook his head and tsked. "Pretty words, my sanctimonious friend. But they won't pay the bills when you lose your job, and they will lose you the respect of the very person for whom you are now so nobly willing to sacrifice everything."

Time to play one of my aces.

"Think again, pal. Caine's seen the photos. I'll even show him the videotape, if you'd like to make me a copy."

"You have told the priest of this?" he asked slowly, emphasizing each word with menace.

Seeing the fire in his eyes, I was tempted to back away a few steps, but instead I stood my ground. "Yeah. So you can just show your dirty pictures to anyone you want to. I don't give a damn," I said, trying very hard to sound as if I really meant it. "You can't blackmail someone who doesn't care if people know what he did."

"You begin to annoy me. There are few things more loathsome than a self-righteous pervert."

"Now you are beginning to annoy me," I retorted. "I don't recall inviting you into my house, so why don't you just go on back out in the alley with the rest of the stray cats, huh?"

"I have taken people apart with my bare hands for such insolence," he said poisonously. "Perhaps you would like to be found dead before this altar you have so lovingly arranged?"

Oops! Maybe I had pushed him a little too far this time. But it was too late to back down now.

"Sure, kill me. Caine knows about all this. If anything happens to me, he'll tell his son who did it. Do you really want that kind of police attention?"

He smiled. "And if your body is found mauled by a wild animal, do you think anyone will believe that it was my doing?"

He had a point there. Things weren't looking too good for the home team.

In the blink of an eye, I found myself facing a tiger. Now, I've seen Bon Bon Hai do this before, so I can't say I was surprised. Terrified might be a better word, considering the toothy snarl with which the beast greeted me.

As the tiger took a few silent steps forward, I backed just as quickly away. All too soon, I found myself against the wall, next to my altar. The creature stopped, but I know enough about cats to recognize when one is getting ready to pounce.

"Wait a minute," I stammered. "Let's not be hasty. Couldn't we talk about this some more?"

I'd have sworn the damn beast smiled at me as it launched itself into the air.

I grabbed the altar table with both hands and swung around just as fast and as hard as I could, slamming it into the side of the cat's head. At the same time, I ducked sideways and away, leaving the oncoming tiger to collide most ungracefully with the wall as I scuttled toward the door. (Don't ask me how I figured out that move. It just seemed like something Caine would have done.)

The creature came to its feet again, shaking its massive head as if I'd done some damage. Unfortunately, it wasn't damage enough. Now I'd really made him mad, and I hadn't even gotten halfway across the room. There was nothing else I could throw at him. It looked as if I'd called one bluff too many this time around.

Oh well, you can't win them all.

With a roar of triumph, the tiger rushed forward --

\-- and came to a sudden halt as if it had run into a solid wall a few feet in front of my face, then bounced backwards. At the same time, I heard Caine's voice say from somewhere behind me, "Enough!"

I spun around. He still had one hand outstretched with the palm forward in that gesture I've seen him use to put out candles. I never realized it worked on tigers too.

The beast growled, spat viciously, and slunk away. I rather expected it to turn back into Bon Bon Hai, but it didn't. It just sort of disappeared.

Caine came over and took me by the arm. "Are you ... all right?"

"Yeah. I guess so. But where did you come from? I thought I was supposed to face him down alone."

He shrugged. "I ... sensed there was something wrong."

Okay. He's done that before.

"Well, your timing's great, as usual."

Caine set the altar table back in its place, then bent to retrieve the Buddha. Together, we gathered up the rest of the things. Nothing had broken, not even the little blue-patterned ceramic vase. When he picked up the candle, Caine got this sort of faraway look in his eyes that I had seen a couple of times before. Then he sighed and put it on the altar.

"I ... do not think Bon Bon Hai will pursue this matter any further," he said at last.

"That would please me no end."

I lit the candle. We stared at it in silence for a long couple of minutes. The beads in the yin-yang symbol on the wall caught the flickering light and shimmered faintly.

Could it be that the wheel had turned and the nightmare was over at last?

I looked at the scroll, with its quote from the Tao. Thanks, Bobbie, I thought gratefully. Thanks for that last gift of trust.

Then I knew what else Bobbie's panel needed to make it complete.

"Caine?" I said softly, reluctant to break into his reverie.

He turned to me questioningly.

Indicating the scroll with a jerk of my chin, I asked, "Could you put that on the Quilt panel? Not the scroll itself, but the words?"

"Yes. But very few people will understand ... what it means."

"I'll know. That's enough."

He nodded. "If you will ... spread the fabric and make it ready, ... I will get my brushes and ink."

"Now?"

"Is not now as good a time as any?"

"Can I give you a ride?"

He shook his head. "It is not far. By the time I return, you can have completed the pocket for the ring."

"How'd you know I wasn't finished with that yet? I mean, it's all folded up over there on the chair. You can't see --"

He looked at me and smiled a little, the way he does when you ask him to explain impossible things.

"Okay, forget I asked. Just go get your stuff, huh?"

 

I had the plastic pocket in place by the time he came back an hour later. It took Caine only a few minutes to do the calligraphy. Then we both sat back on our heels to admire the overall effect of our handiwork, with the entire panel spread out on the floor before us.

"Jeremy, ... is it not time that you completed this project?" he asked, glancing pointedly at the jade ring still on my hand.

For as long as I'd known Bobbie, that ring had been on his finger, except for the brief time he had loaned it to me to wear. "For luck," as he had said then.

Sliding the jade circlet off my finger, I held it out to Caine.

"Here. You do it. Please."

He shook his head a fraction, then took my hand and curled my fingers around the ring lying warm in my palm.

"Okay," I conceded glumly, "I guess it should be my job, after all."

Leaning forward, I slid the dragon ring into the clear plastic pocket, then laced the top of the pocket closed.

That done, I placed my hand flat down on top of the ring. Closing my eyes, I let the memories flow through my head. The good times and the bad. The look in Bobbie's eyes when the loving had been good between us. The terrible hurt and anger in those same black eyes when we had fought. It was all part of the same thing, like the yin-yang that hung on my wall.

"Good-bye, Bobbie," I whispered brokenly as I sat back on my heels. "Go in peace, my love."

Caine looked at me. When I nodded, he proceeded to fold the panel and place it in the box I had gotten from the Post Office several weeks ago. I suppose there must have been tears running down my face, but I wasn't too concerned about that. I sealed the package carefully.

It was over. I had done what I could. Now it was time to send Bobbie's panel off, allow it to become part of the monument that was the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

And perhaps it was time to do more than that. It was time to allow Bobbie to leave also. Oh, not that I would cease to miss him, or forget, or anything like that. No. But it was time I set him free, and went on with my life. He would always be there in my memory, of course. But now he would be a tender echo, instead of a gaping wound.

I took a long breath and looked over at Caine.

"Walk me to the Post Office?" I asked hopefully.

He draped one arm around my shoulder.

"Of course. And we will stop ... for a cup of tea with the Ancient on the way back, if you wish."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded.


	8. It Is Time

It Is Time

"Jeremy, are you reading those infernal want ads again?"

At the sound of Kevin's voice, I glanced up from the pages of the Radiology Advance and smiled rather shame-facedly. "I'm afraid so, boss. After all, my job here at County General doesn't seem to be going anywhere. It's been two years and I'm still only a part-time MRI tech."

He turned most of his attention back to the computer screen, setting up the last in a series of scans of our patient's lower back. "There just isn't a slot open and administration isn't willing to create a new position, although we're certainly busy enough to need another tech. I don't know what we would do without you to fill in when people are sick or on vacation. If it were up to me, you'd have been full-time long ago."

"I know. And I appreciate that, really I do." I laid the paper aside and began filming the scan that had just finished. "But I'm not getting any younger, and I've got to consider my financial situation. Another 15 years or so and I'll be facing retirement. Part-time doesn't come with a pension plan."

Kevin looked at me from the corners of his eyes without turning his head away from what he was doing. (Whenever I try that, it doesn't work. Watching the screen through bifocals is hard enough; peripheral vision just isn't possible.) He inquired, "So do you see anything tempting in the Advance?"

"Well, there's a hospital in Alaska that needs an MRI tech. Relocation bonus, all kinds of benefits."

"All kinds of snow and cold," he put in wryly.

"Yeah, there's that. But we've got snow and cold here too," I countered, "or haven't you looked outside lately? Then again, they always want people in Saudi Arabia."

Kevin laughed. Saudi Arabia is kind of a standing joke among x-ray techs, since there are always ads running and rumor has it you can make big bucks by going. But who wants to live in a place where women are treated so badly? I may not be a woman, but I certainly consider myself a feminist.

"Seriously, Jeremy, do you really want to leave? I thought you liked it here in Sloan City," Kevin persisted.

I just shrugged.

He stood up. The exam was finished and he had to get the patient out of the scanner and send her on her way. Kevin had asked me the one question I really couldn't answer, although I'd been debating it in my mind for the last few weeks.

Did I truly wish to leave? Well, the idea was sounding better all the time. Goodness knows, I've picked up and left often enough during my life. It seems to be my way of solving problems, whenever they get to be too much for me. Besides, what did I have to hold me here? A modest apartment on the edge of Chinatown that I had shared for a few brief months with my lover before he died of AIDS almost a year ago. A job I enjoyed with co-workers I liked, even if that job didn't seem to hold much promise for the future. A small but steadily-growing circle of friends.

And Kwai Chang Caine.

Unfortunately, Caine was something of a mixed blessing. I'd known him for quite a long time, ever since I'd offered him a ride in Massachusetts and then ended up driving all the way across the country with him until we parted company at his Temple. After that, I had never expected to see him again. But, by some strange quirk of fate, we both ended up here a few years later and ran across each other at the hospital, when Peter had been brought in for an MRI.

I owed a lot to Caine. At various times and in several different places, he'd saved my life, my sanity, and my soul. (I'd like to think that I may have helped him out now and then also.)

At any rate, we were friends. And for the last nine months or so, he'd also been my T'ai Chi Ch'uan instructor. (There's a story behind that, but I won't go into it here.)

Only trouble with all this is that I'm gay. (Sorry. Maybe I should have mentioned that fact sooner. I tend to take it for granted that everyone knows.) I've always found Caine extremely attractive, although I'm well aware he's not gay and not interested in me in that respect. I've tried very hard to keep that sort of thing out of our friendship, but it hasn't been easy. In fact, it's only become harder lately, since I see him on a regular basis for lessons. The Master/student relationship is a bit deeper than simple friendship, so it's just that much more difficult to keep my emotional distance. And of course, seeing him with Mary Margaret Skalany doesn't help any, although I love her to death and certainly wish them both all the happiness in the world.

It's just that, like my job, my relationship with Caine seemed to be going nowhere, since there was really nowhere I could dare to let it go.

Maybe I should just call the whole thing quits. Move on. Forget the T'ai Chi and the Chinese philosophy. Leave the apartment, with its memories of Bobbie. And let Kwai Chang Caine become part of my past, since he couldn't very well be my future.

At least that's what I told myself as I finished up the filming and prepared for our next patient. I resolved to send out resumes to the most promising-looking ads, just to see if I got any nibbles. It couldn't hurt, right?

A few weeks passed. I actually got replies to a couple of the resumes, plus a request for a phone interview. (Wouldn't you know, it was the place in Alaska? We talked for almost an hour.)

Christmas came and went. I don't do much for Christmas, since I really don't consider myself a Christian. As a result, I generally offer to work over the holidays, so other people can have the time off. There was a bit of excitement up on the pediatric ward on Christmas Eve, but I didn't hear about it until it was all over. Caine and Cheryl took on a bunch of bad guys without too much of a problem.

It was mid-January when I got the letter. Alaska wanted me. Although they realized it would take a little time for me to actually move up there to start the new job, they requested a definite reply to their offer within a week.

Although I was greatly flattered to be chosen, that still left open the question of whether or not I wanted Alaska.

I didn't sleep well that night. I would have liked to have talked the situation over with Caine, but he had cancelled our T'ai Chi class that evening, pleading some personal business he'd had to attend to.

I went to work the next morning with the letter of acceptance in my pocket, intending to stop by and talk to Caine after I got off. Maybe he'd be able to help me sort out my feelings on the subject.

All during my shift, I functioned in a distracted haze. I just couldn't stop thinking about whether or not I wanted to leave. I said nothing to Kevin, although I was sorely tempted. After all, if I chose to turn down that job in Alaska, I wasn't real sure I wanted Kevin to know I had seriously considered taking it. Time enough to tell him after I had made up my mind one way or the other.

I seemed to see everything with new eyes, as I considered that I might not be here much longer. One thing I knew: I'd miss Kevin. His constant encouragement meant a lot to me. And he really knew MRI. Whenever I worked with him, I learned something new. We had gotten to be pretty good friends.

(Only friends, mind you. Kevin was married with two children. Yeah, he was kind of cute, but he was definitely off limits for anything more. Even I have my principles, and Jeremy's Second Rule of Sexual Conduct was very simple: never screw around with someone you work with. Rule Three was to steer clear of anyone in a marriage or other committed monogamous relationship. So what's Rule One, you may ask? Never come on to straight folks, no matter how much you may want them. While that certainly applied to Kevin also, it was sticking to this one where Caine was concerned that was driving me up the wall. But I digress.)

By the time I got off from work, it was beginning to snow. Since it was also getting on towards suppertime, I went in one of my favorite Chinatown grocery stores, planning to buy something to make a contribution toward the meal Caine would be likely to offer me if I stayed for any length of time.

Imagine my astonishment when I caught sight of Caine with Mrs. Liu, the shopkeeper, and heard him telling her she should do what Bon Bon Hai said or she'd be sorry. When she dared to object, I was even more shocked to see Caine pull back one hand as if he meant to strike her!

As Mrs. Liu cowered back against a row of shelves, I came up behind him and asked uncertainly, "Uh -- what are you doing? Why the devil would you want anyone to obey Bon Bon Hai?"

As he spun around to confront me, I saw the look on his face and automatically stepped backwards. I had only seen Caine angry once before, but on that memorable occasion he had almost killed me.

"What business is it of yours?" he demanded, glaring at me as if he didn't recognize me at first. Then he kind of narrowed his eyes as if he'd just remembered something and wasn't especially pleased with it. "Ah! The annoying little faggot."

Now, Caine had never -- ever -- said anything the least bit derogatory about my sexual orientation, so I had no clue as to what was going on here. I only knew I didn't like it and I wasn't going to put up with it. No, not even from him.

"What gives you the right to call me names?" I replied, my temper rapidly getting the best of my common sense. "And what gives you the right to threaten innocent women? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

He glared at me even harder and said something in Chinese. I had no idea what it meant, but it sure didn't sound like a compliment. All he did was push me a little, but I stumbled backwards half the length of the store until my heels hit a sack of rice. I landed unceremoniously on the floor behind the rice, while my glasses went skittering off under a shelf.

"Do not interfere in what you do not understand," Caine said contemptuously. Then he turned and strode out the door, pushing aside an incoming customer who got in his way.

Mrs. Liu retrieved my glasses and helped me to my feet, mumbling polite apologies.

"It's okay. Nothing hurt but my dignity," I assured her. "I just can't figure what's gotten into Caine."

She shook her head, looking as confused as I was, as I headed for the door. Something wasn't kosher and I was determined to find out what it was.

By the time I reached the sidewalk, Caine was gone. I thought I had seen him turn to his right when he left the grocery, so I hurried in that direction, glancing into shops and alleyways as I passed. The snow was falling harder now.

It wasn't long before I found him, but when I did, I was in for yet another surprise.

He was at the far end of a deserted sidestreet, being beaten up by a couple of punks, who were pretty much pushing him back and forth between them. I faded back and peeked around the corner of the building at the unlikely scene. Caine seemed as if he could barely stay on his feet. He made no effort whatsoever to defend himself. Shit, I could have put up a better fight than that!

No sooner had that thought crossed my mind and I was about to go to his assistance than a second Kwai Chang Caine stepped into the fray, pulling the two young men off of the other Caine, who collapsed onto the slushy street. This new and more aggressive Caine proceeded to knock down the punks as I stared in astonishment. Then he went over to the fallen Caine and laughed. Raising one leg, he made as if to kick the man on the ground, then stopped and merely said, "Our time -- is not yet."

He turned on his heel and walked away, as the other Caine rose shakily to his feet and called after him to wait.

I was now completely blown away as I continued to watch from my more or less hidden vantage point. Either Caine had an identical twin who was a genuine S.O.B., or I had lost my marbles. But I didn't feel crazy, and the Caine who had been left behind looked all too real to me. He stumbled over to the wall of a building and leaned against it as if he were about to fall.

That was too much for me. Throwing caution to the wind, I raced down the street and put one arm around his waist.

"You okay?"

He turned and regarded me groggily. "Jeremy?"

"In the flesh. I don't know what's going on here, but you don't look so good." In fact, I could feel him shivering in the cold, something he never does. I pulled his arm over my shoulder and got a better grip around him with my other hand. Even so, he's quite a bit bigger than I am and I've manhandled enough patients in my time to know I couldn't hold him up if he collapsed.

"Come on. We're going someplace warm," I said decisively. "And you're going to explain all this to me. I think you owe me that, after throwing me clear across Mrs. Liu's store."

"I -- did that?"

"Well, if you didn't, you're going to tell me who did."

He sort of nodded, so I took that to indicate acquiescence and started along the street.

 

A short time later, we sat at a corner booth in the Golden Dragon with a pot of hot tea steaming on the table. His hands were shaking, so I poured the tea for both of us. Curbing my curiosity, I waited for him to finish his cup before asking, "Well?"

"You -- should not have seen that."

"Seen what? Why not? Tell me what's going on before I die of terminal curiosity. First you call me names and push me around, and then I find you saving yourself from a beating. I don't expect a logical explanation because I doubt there is one, but at least give me a hint, will you?" I pleaded.

"What you -- saw -- and what you see now -- is not me. It is only -- part -- of me." The hesitations were longer and more frequent than usual, as if it took great effort just for him to speak.

"You're not making a whole lot of sense. How can you only be part of you?"

So he told me about the Kuan La, the deliberate separation of the good and evil parts of the self. If I hadn't already had a run-in with that other extremely un-Caine-like Caine, I might well have thought he wasn't playing with a full deck this time. Granted, Caine does some pretty weird stuff, but this pretty well took the cake. (Then again, didn't I see something rather similar happen on STAR TREK, on one of those endless series of re-runs they're always showing at odd hours? But that was just a TV show. This was for real. Well, as real as things get when Caine's around, I reminded myself.)

Caine recalled me from my reveries by placing his teacup firmly on the table and looking me squarely in the eyes.

"Jeremy, -- I must ask you to promise me something."

"What?" I said warily, not willing to commit myself to anything without hearing what it was.

"You must -- promise." His eyes bored into me.

Shit, I'd promise the man the moon and the stars if he asked for them, and try my best to deliver, so why play word games now?

"Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want."

"I do not wish you to get hurt. You must -- stay away from me -- until this is over."

Damn! That was the one thing I really didn't want to do.

"How will I know when it's over?" I asked unhappily.

"You -- will know."

"But I want to help --"

"You -- cannot. I must go. Please stay here."

Without looking at him, I put my hand on top of his. "All right. I'll leave you alone. But be careful, huh?" I said softly.

"Yes," he agreed. Then the hand was gone, and so was he.

I sat there for a while. When the waiter appeared, I ordered something to eat. I suppose it was good, but I don't think I even tasted it as I chewed and swallowed.

It occurred to me as I sat there eating that I never had gotten around to asking Caine's advice about that job offer. Oh well, I had more important things to worry about now, didn't I?

 

I went home and tried to relax. That proved to be impossible. I picked up a book, then set it aside. There was nothing on television worth watching. (So what else is new?) I even tried cleaning house. Whatever I did, I kept getting this sick feeling in my heart that Caine was in trouble. Bad trouble.

As the evening wore on, the feeling only got worse. Finally I reached the point where I couldn't stand it any longer. I might have promised Caine to stay out of his way, but that didn't mean I couldn't go talk to the Ancient, did it? Maybe Lo Si would be able to tell me more about this Kuan La business, and why Caine was doing it at this particular point in time.

By now it was fairly late, but surely Lo Si wouldn't be asleep if there were some danger to his friend. In fact, he might not even be at home, but I had to try.

As I pulled into a parking spot just down the street from the Ancient's place, I noticed Peter's fancy blue sports car at the curb. Phooey. I had hoped to catch the old man alone. Besides, I never felt as if Peter liked me all that much. The idea of his father hanging out with a gay guy always seemed to make him uncomfortable, although he hadn't ever been actually nasty to me or anything like that.

However, I had come to see the Ancient and see the Ancient I would, Peter's presence notwithstanding. I got out of my car and headed down the street, my shoulders hunched into my jacket against the chill wind. No one answered my knock, but the door wasn't locked, so I pushed it open and went inside, calling, "Lo Si? Hello? Anyone home?"

Still no reaction, but I could see the flickering light of candles from the living room up ahead so I walked down the short hallway in that direction. I had almost reached the door when I narrowly missed colliding with Peter, who came hurrying in the other direction.

Although he had his overcoat slung over his shoulders, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, which was rather strange, considering he was heading for the outside door and the cold. Then I noticed something even stranger: he had some rather nasty-looking burns on his forearms, burns which looked suspiciously like those tiger and dragon Shaolin brands that both Caine and Lo Si had. I might almost have thought I was imagining things in the rather dim light of the hall, except that he stepped backwards for a moment into the living room to allow me to enter before dodging around me, mumbling something about being in a hurry.

Lo Si was hot on Peter's heels, but he didn't even come close to running me down. He had stopped and was looking at me with a peculiar expression on his face.

"Lo Si, come on," Peter called impatiently from the hallway. 

"One moment," the Ancient replied.

"Oh, jeez, come on! We've got to --"

"There is time, Peter," the old man said sternly. "Go out to your car. I will join you in a moment." He was still gazing at me, seeming somewhat perplexed. "Jeremy, what are you doing here?"

"Caine's in trouble," I blurted out.

"Yes. But how do you know?"

"I just feel it. I want to help. I came to you to ask how."

Lo Si shook his head. "You cannot."

I jumped to an obvious conclusion. "But you and Peter are going to him. Let me come. There must be something I can do."

Lo Si shook his head. "You must not interfere. Peter is the only one who can help Kwai Chang Caine now."

"Peter? Why only him?"

"Peter has reached a level in his training where he can transfer his chi to his father to give him the energy he will need in the upcoming confrontation."

Something clicked into place in my mind. "The brands, right?"

"Yes. It is his destiny. But you must stay here."

"What good is that? What can I do from here?"

I could have sworn something clicked into place in Lo Si's mind at that point also. He got that "Aha!" look on his face. Good. Now maybe I'd be able to get in on the action, whatever it was.

"What can I do?" I prompted.

"Meditate."

"Oh yeah, sure. That will be a big help."

"I am serious, Jeremy. Do as I say. You will remain here. You must promise me this."

Shit, it seemed like everyone wanted me to promise stuff today. And it was always something I definitely did not want to do.

"You sure about this?" I asked. "After all, meditation isn't exactly my strong point."

He smiled slightly. "I know."

The honk of a car horn sounded from outside.

"I must go. You will do this?"

"Yeah," I agreed unwillingly. "If you say so."

With a satisfied nod, Lo Si left. A moment later, I heard tires screeching. (That boy's driving would make me crazy if he were my son.)

Okay, so I was supposed to sit tight and meditate, huh? What a drag. I glanced idly around the familiar living room.

Wait a minute. Where'd that photo on the table come from? It had never been there before.

Okay, so I'm nosey. When I picked it up and held it near one of the brighter candles, I could make out an attractive young woman with long dark hair holding a cup and sitting in what was probably a restaurant in Paris, judging by the Eiffel Tower in the background. At first I thought it might be Lo Si's long-estranged daughter, but I knew her casually and a closer inspection revealed that it definitely wasn't Danielle, although there was a slight resemblance.

So who the dickens was it then?

With a shrug, I put the photo back in its place. I'd ask about it later. I had other things to do. (Important things, like meditate. Yeah. But I had promised Lo Si.)

With a sigh that might have done justice to Caine, I settled down cross-legged on the couch. At least I could be comfortable, until my legs fell asleep. Closing my eyes, I tried to concentrate.

As usual, I had trouble getting my mind to settle down and shut up. It kept prattling on, asking me why I was just sitting here when Caine was in danger. Then it decided to wonder about the brands on Peter's arms. I couldn't get the image of this urn full of hot coals out of my mind.

Would I have had the courage to do that? Maybe. If it were Caine who told me to. But I'm no Shaolin priest, nor am I ever likely to be, so I don't guess I'll ever be in that position.

Strangely enough, I almost regretted it. While some part of me shrank away from inviting such pain, another part would like to have found out if I had the nerve to go through with it.

Since getting involved with Caine, I've done a bit of research into Shaolin stuff. In the old days, it wasn't just a case of picking up an urn full of hot coals. That was the more or less easy part. Prior to that, the candidate would have to successfully negotiate a long tunnel full of lethal booby traps. Needless to say, not everyone made it far enough to lift the urn and move it aside in order to go through the door and into the outside world as a Shaolin monk.

But lots of things have changed since then. No reason why the Shaolin wouldn't have modified a few of their practices too.

But this wasn't getting me anywhere, meditation-wise.

Okay, I told myself, you want to think about the Shaolin brands? So go ahead. Focus on those two images, the dragon and the tiger. The yin and the yang, the hard and the soft, the light and the dark, the good --

\-- and the evil.

All of a sudden, in the dark place behind my eyelids, I saw Caine and Mary Margaret standing close together, face to face. I found this rather startling, but strange things have been happening to me since I got to know Caine, so it wasn't enough to seriously disrupt my concentration.

What was startling was that Caine abruptly grabbed Mary Margaret and pulled her into an embrace, over her protests, judging by the expression on her face.

(For some reason, I couldn't hear what they were saying. The effect was rather like watching a TV show with the volume turned off.)

This was the "bad" Caine. There was no one else it could possibly be, judging by his actions.

Almost as if to prove my conclusion, another Caine came through the doorway to the balcony and got Mary Margaret out of her predicament.

The nasty Caine went into the other room, tying his hair back into a ponytail as he did so. (Good. That would make it easier to tell them apart if things got confusing, since the nice Caine's hair was just hanging down straight.)

With Mary Margaret's help, the good Caine followed his alter ego across the hall. When he got into the room, he stepped forward to face the other man, who now had his back turned. Just then, Peter and Lo Si arrived on the scene.

Although I still couldn't hear what went on, I could see Peter hold out his forearms to his father's better self. As Caine grasped the young man's wrists, he threw his head back with an expression that seemed to fall somewhere between relief and ecstasy. When he turned to once again face the negative incarnation of himself, he seemed stronger and more sure. Whatever Peter did, it must have worked.

The good Caine held out his arms to his other self, in an obvious invitation to merge with him. The evil Caine apparently didn't care for this idea and proceeded to kick his twin. Thus began the fight I had been expecting all along. I watched the action, wondering how on earth either one of them could possibly win, since they were so evenly matched. At one point, they bowed to each other. I almost thought it was over, until the nasty Caine hit his rival a sneaky blow in the face and the battle began once again.

With no warning, everything seemed to slow down. I've had this sort of thing happen before, but it's usually at a time of personal danger, so I had always figured it was some kind of adrenaline effect. But I wasn't in danger now. I was just an observer. So why the slow motion?

At this leisurely pace, the fight seemed almost like a dance. I had an urge to try to tell the good Caine what to do, to get him to hit harder, move faster, somehow beat the stuffing out of his opponent, who had callously insulted and humiliated me not so very long ago. My anger grew in direct proportion to the stretching out of the time frame. I found myself fervently hating this other side of my respected mentor and friend, even as I reminded myself you cannot truly separate a person in this manner. The bad Caine was, after all, still part of the totality of the man.

I knew full well that Caine had a dark side. I'd seen it before, at the ruins of his Temple. We had both fought a demon then, a demon compounded of our own personal evils. But this was different. It wasn't a demon he was fighting now -- it was him, his own self. Good or evil, how could you defeat yourself? How could anyone possibly win that battle?

But win he must, if he were to emerge whole.

The all-too-even combat went on, at that frustratingly slow speed. In my mind, I struck out at the evil Caine, wishing him sprawled on the floor, beaten to a pulp, knocked through the window to fall to his death. A murderous rage settled on my soul. I was delighted at the viciousness of my thoughts, as if they might somehow serve to strengthen my good Caine's determination to overcome his adversary.

Finally, Caine knocked his alter ego to the floor with a kick to the head.

Good! I cheered. Now's your chance! Kick him again! Stomp him into defeat!   
But he didn't. Instead he came forward with his arms outstretched again, pleading with his other self.

And I realized with a flood of shame that I'd been going about this all wrong and ass-backwards. You could not possibly win by defeating yourself. In fact, defeat and victory both were meaningless in this context. What mattered was harmony, wholeness -- and love.

Love, and acceptance of that vicious, hateful monster that yet lives inside even the gentlest of souls. For in no other way will it be tamed.

However, only the good half of Caine seemed to realize what was needed, as he continued to stand there offering his embrace. Weakened he might be, vulnerable he certainly was, but he knew what must be done.

Just as I knew, now.

Unfortunately, the expression on the face of the fallen Caine didn't seem to bode well for any sort of unity. And more than just his expression told me that. In some strange manner, I felt his gloating satisfaction. Far from being defeated, he seemed ready to spring to his feet and go at it once more. And maybe this time, the other Caine wouldn't see it coming.

I shrank from the hatred I could feel all too clearly now, the fierce resentment that condemned everything, not least of all itself. Try as I might, I couldn't escape. Maybe my previous rage had established a connection between me and this Caine, in the same way that I had occasionally seemed to sense Caine's thoughts and memories in moments of strong emotion. Whatever caused it, it was awful! I did not want to experience such hatred, not as part of anyone, and most especially not as part of the Caine I knew and loved.

But shrinking aside was not the way. It must be faced, and seen, and known, no matter how much that would hurt.

I truly saw inside that other Caine then; saw the various hurts and hates that had made it what it was, and recognized them as not so very different from my own. Across this common bond of recognition, I felt I could almost reach out to its mind. If I was to have just this one chance, this one split second of contact in which to touch this tortured piece of a soul, what could I do to lessen its pain and show it where peace could be found?

That other Caine seemed a poor pathetic creature now, made up of fear, and loneliness, and despair. All it could do was lash out and destroy, for it knew nothing else.

But did it truly know nothing else? For this too was Caine, with all his memories and knowledge, however twisted. And in those memories lay the key, for this Caine too would know the symbols and the meanings.

The evil Caine was on his feet now, regarding his other half with a slightly freaked expression. Maybe he was picking up on my feelings also, as I could somehow feel his. If so, this was my chance. Carefully, deliberately, I set my mind to picture the yin-yang symbol and nothing else. The black and white, the dark and light, the weak and strong -- and the dot of each inside its opposite. No one side is all, nor may they exist separately, for they are two sides of the same coin, and folds of the same garment.

("Folds of the same garment"? Where'd I get that from? Damned if I knew.)

I set the circle turning, until the colors blended into gray and the whole thing became a solid sphere, fairly dancing with its own vitality and life.

A burning pain lanced through my head and my vision wavered. Despite my best efforts, my lovely sphere shattered. I didn't have the mental strength or training for this sort of endeavor. What had ever made me think I could do it?

Once again, I saw the two Caines confronting each other. But now the scene seemed to be bathed in a terrible light, far too bright for me to look upon. I knew I was losing this peculiar vision, if vision it was.

Tears leaked from my eyes even as I strained to see without them. My head hurt so badly I wanted to beat it against the wall. I knew the pain would ease off if I just let the whole thing drop, but I had to find out what was going to happen.

I held out long enough to see the evil half sigh. Then the images began to blur, as if my glasses were sliding out of focus. But suddenly I was able to hear, as the bad Caine said resignedly, "Yes. It must be so."

I did the mental equivalent of squinting and could just make out both Caines stepping together. Flashes of static lightning seemed to encircle them and then only one Caine was left. He stood, head back and arms outstretched, with peace and ecstasy on his face.

That was enough for me. Exhausted, I gave it up and let the darkness close around me, neither knowing nor caring whether I would wake up again.

 

I came to with a truly major headache driving a spike between my eyes. I didn't dare open them right away, since I was sure that would only drive the spike deeper. Only partly awake, I had that feeling you get when you wake up in a strange place but don't quite remember why you're not in your own bed.

Someone laid a hand on my forehead. The pain eased off a bit, which gave my brain enough working space to pull up a few memories and tell me I was most likely on Lo Si's couch. In fact, it was probably his hand on my head. I slitted my eyes to confirm my speculation, then closed them again when I saw that he was holding a cup, which was undoubtedly filled with a noxious concoction he'd expect me to drink. Maybe if I just pretended to be asleep, he'd get bored and go away?

Nah. Bad idea. Then he might take his hand away and my head would hurt worse. Besides, I had a few questions that needed answers.

Resigned to my fate, I opened my eyes and held out my hand for the cup. I was right. The stuff tasted like a handful of dirt mixed with hot water.

"He's okay, isn't he?" I asked while trying not to gag.

The Ancient nodded. "Kwai Chang Caine is fine."

Taking the empty cup and setting it aside, he slid his other hand under the back of my neck, which turned the headache down another couple of notches.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked.

"Yeah. I saw it all."

Lo Si took my statement at face value, saying only, "Tell me."

I did, with several long pauses as I tried to put the strange experience into words that would do it justice. The Ancient asked me a few questions, but he seemed not the least bit skeptical. The whole thing sounded totally incredible to me even as I said it. By the time I had finished, I had almost convinced myself that I had imagined the entire episode.

Lo Si blew that theory out of the water with a few words.

"It was not your imagination. Everything took place exactly as you described."

"But how is that possible? I wasn't there. How could I --?

"I do not know."

"But you're supposed to know about all this weird stuff," I protested.

"It happened, so it must be accepted, even if it cannot be explained."

"Yeah. I guess," I admitted grudgingly. I'd been hoping for a logical explanation. "Lo Si? Could I really have done anything to influence what the evil version of Caine did? Or was at least that much of it just in my own head?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"But you're the one who insisted that I meditate. Did you know I was going to do all that?"

He smiled that neat smile that lights up his face. "Even a Shambhallah Master cannot know the future before it happens."

"Come on, Lo Si. You seem to know damn near everything else. You must have had some idea."

"No. I only felt that you would do something. I could not be certain of what it would be."

Okay. I guessed I'd have to settle for that, since I wasn't going to get any more out of him. I sighed. My headache had diminished to more or less normal dimensions, but I still felt weak as a kitten and severely in need of a good night's sleep, despite the early morning light at the window. Fortunately, I didn't have to be at work that day. I don't think I would have been able to make it.

"Rest now," the old man said gently.

Sounded like a good idea to me.

 

When I woke up again later on, I was in much better shape. Lo Si sent me on my way, with a small bottle of concentrated stuff to mix with water and the admonition to go home and take it easy for the rest of the day.

I didn't quite follow his orders. Slipping the bottle into my coat pocket, I headed over to Caine's place. Maybe he'd be willing to give me a better explanation of what had gone on. Even if he knew nothing more about it than the Ancient did, I still wanted to talk to him about that job offer in Alaska.

Climbing the stairs took more out of me than usual, but I made it to the top floor without being seriously out of breath. I heard someone moving around in the work room, so I barged right in, knowing he would have heard me coming anyway. He always does.

I stopped dead in my tracks halfway across the room. Caine was there all right, tidying up the things on one of the tables. A small wastebasket nearby was about half full of broken jars and other bits and pieces of things, doubtless stuff that had been broken during last night's fight.

But I noticed all of that only marginally. Mostly what I noticed was that he had no hair.

He looked up at me as I continued to stand just inside the door. No, I wasn't even going to ask. He had the right to wear his hair any way he damn well pleased. I thought he looked much better with it long, but if he wanted to shave it all off, that was his business.

Nevertheless, his unexpected appearance threw me off balance. I didn't quite know how to bring up the subject I had come to talk about.

Maybe he sensed my uncertainty, because he smiled a little. Dumping the broken plate he had been holding into the trash, he came over and stood before me.

"Jeremy, -- I -- am leaving," he said gently. "It is good that you have come -- in time to say good-bye."

It was a moment before I could take in the full impact of that statement. I had been so concerned lately over whether or not I should leave that it had never occurred to me that he might be about to do so.

"But -- why?" I finally had the presence of mind to ask.

As usual, he shrugged. "There are -- several reasons. Laura -- my wife -- may be alive, and I must look for her. The Ancient showed me -- a photo --"

"Yeah. I know the one you mean," I interrupted, recalling the woman with the Eiffel Tower. "But what makes you think that means she's alive? Couldn't it have been taken before her death?"

"Perhaps. But Laura was never -- in Europe."

"Then maybe it's just someone who looks like her. Seems a pretty distant chance to me."

"That is so," Caine admitted. "In my heart -- I do not feel that she still lives. But I must be sure."

Despite the pain that was just beginning to invade my soul, I couldn't help thinking of someone else who would feel much as I did. (And no, it wasn't Peter. For some reason, he didn't enter my mind until later.)

"Have you told Mary Margaret?"

Caine looked away from me briefly, as if he might feel a bit guilty. "Yes. And she knows I will return -- someday -- whether or not I find Laura."

Okay, he didn't plan to be gone forever. That was a little less awful. But it was still a flimsy reason for leaving, considering the damage he'd do to the people who cared for him.

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?" I hazarded.

"Yes. But that is what I will tell Peter. He -- is not ready to hear my other reason."

"Okay. So tell me. I promise not to breathe a word of it to him."

Caine didn't answer right away. When he did, his words explained his hesitation. "I am -- not sure you are ready to hear it either."

Uh-oh. This sounded ominous. But I wasn't about to give up now.

"Try me."

"Very well. The time has come -- when my son must find his own way. If I am always -- here -- for him, he will not be able to do so."

"From what the Ancient told me, I gather he's already made his choice. He's decided to be Shaolin, hasn't he?"

"Yes. And his decision fills me with joy. However, to be Shaolin -- does not mean to be exactly like me."

"So? There's no way he could hope to do that anyway. Peter would never be able to take your place in this community."

"I -- know. But he thinks this is what I expect of him, -- so he must try, -- before he will be free to seek his own path."

"Why don't you just tell him that?" I suggested.

"I -- cannot always say to Peter what I wish to say. It is -- difficult. We are so close, -- and yet so far apart. Besides, -- it is a lesson he must learn for himself, -- before he will truly know it."

Caine's eyes glistened with what might have been unshed tears and his voice shook as he went on, "Unless a thing grows, it will stagnate and die. Now, Peter must grow, -- and he must do it without me. I must -- allow him the space he needs. But this is a -- hard lesson for a parent to learn."

I could understand that.

"I see what you mean. Beyond a certain point, you do someone no favor by helping them too much."

Caine nodded, but looked far from happy.

Well, I wasn't exactly happy about all this either. While I could understand his reasons, I wished desperately for something to say that would keep him here.

"So what about me? Who's going to teach me T'ai Chi, if you leave?"

I was grasping at straws, and I knew it.

"I am sure the Ancient will teach you." Caine studied me for a moment, in that intense way he has. "There is -- much he can teach you, if you are truly ready to learn."

He put his hand on my shoulder before saying gently, "Perhaps -- it would also be best for you to find your way -- without me -- for a time."

Ouch! That was obviously the part he wasn't sure I was ready to hear. Well, I had asked for it, hadn't I?

I lowered my head to hide the tears in my eyes. "Where exactly will you be then? Paris?"

"It is a -- destination and a starting point, but not an ending. Whether or not I find Laura, I also wish to see my father for a time at St. Adele. He is -- not getting any younger -- and there is much we should -- talk -- about."

I thought I detected a note of uncertainty as he said that, as if there were something between him and this father I had heard of but never met that made him uncomfortable.

On an impulse, I pulled out my wallet and grabbed a handful of bills. Holding them out to Caine, I said, "Here, take this. France is a long way off, and you can't walk across the Atlantic Ocean. This will at least get you started."

"I -- do not need -- money."

"I know. But take it anyway. This is the only thing I've got to give you."

Caine shook his head slowly, as if I should have known better. "It is not the -- only thing you have given me, Jeremy. You have taught me about being -- different -- in a way I had not thought about before."

He had to mean being gay, and all it entailed. Yeah, I guess I had taught him a little about that, hadn't I? But I couldn't help thinking that I hadn't taught him half as much about it as I'd have liked to. I'd have liked to --

No, forget it, you idiot. Don't even think it. You never told him how very much you wanted to screw him, and you never will.

"Jeremy, -- I -- know," Caine said softly, scaring the living daylights out of me by answering my unspoken thought. I pulled away from him in startlement, turning aside and carefully studying one of the scrolls on the wall.

Oh shit! Here it comes. He's going to tell me off for wanting him. After all, his evil half had had nothing but contempt for me, and that had to have come from some part of Caine's being. Now I've blown it completely.

I'm afraid I winced when he put his hand back on my shoulder and forced me to face him. "I have -- always known."

Worse and worse!

"I'm sorry," I apologized hastily, still not looking at him. "I never meant to offend you --"

"Why should I be offended by your desire for me?" I dared to look at him then. All I saw in his eyes was a hint of gentle amusement. "You have never -- come on to me, nor have you done anything to make me feel -- uncomfortable."

"It's okay, then?"

He shrugged. "Of course."

A huge weight fell off my soul and landed with an almost audible thump on the floor.

"Now, I must get some of my things from the attic," he went on, doing a quick change of subject as he indicated the ladder against the far wall. (Attic, huh? I had always wondered where that ladder went.) "My son -- will be here soon. I would like to speak with him -- alone."

I did my best to pull myself together.

"Okay. I can dig that. But you will come back, someday?"

"I will. Until then, know that I will always be with you," -- he waved one hand as if to encompass the entire community -- "with all of you. Good-bye, Jeremy."

He pulled me into a hug. I still had the money in my hand, so I slid it into his coat pocket, hoping he wouldn't notice until it was too late.

Fighting tears, I clung to him briefly, and then, as I had done once before under similar circumstances, I deliberately let him go and stepped back.

As I headed for the door, I saw Caine hop up onto the platform and start to climb the ladder in the corner. I barely made it out of the room before the tears overflowed and ran down my face. I had to stop for a moment to wipe my glasses. That's when I heard footsteps on the stairs beyond the outside door.

Shit! That had to be Peter. I really didn't want to run into him just now. I ducked quickly into Caine's meditation room, flattening myself against the wall just inside the entrance. As soon as Peter went by, I figured I could slip out and be gone.

I listened while rapid footsteps came down the short hallway. Then Peter's voice came to me clearly from the other room.

"Pop? Hey! Oh, you shaved your head."

"It was -- time. I was proud to see you -- with the brands on your arms. Do you not -- regret -- your decision?"

"Not for a minute. Why are you leaving?"

I was about to sneak around the edge of the door and make my getaway, really I was, but my curiosity got the better of me. After our discussion, I just had to see what Caine was going to say.

"Your -- mother -- may be alive."

He must have shown Peter the photo at that point because Peter said something about recognizing the cafe from a nightmare he'd had. They talked briefly about her being in the Bardo world, whatever that was. Then Caine said, "My son, -- you are the master now. I will be sitting -- at your feet."

Ha! I thought contemptuously, Not bloody likely! At least not as far as I'm concerned!

Caine went on, "Our journey together -- is ended."

Understandably, Peter objected to this abrupt dismissal. I almost thought Caine would break down and tell him more, but all he did was ask his son to take care of the place while he was gone.

Peter agreed. By now I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for the poor kid.

"But you will return?" he asked plaintively.

"I will. I will always hold you -- in my heart."

Of course, I couldn't see them but I'd lay odds Caine hugged Peter at that point.

It got quiet for a few moments. I was tempted to peek and find out what they were up to, but I didn't dare.

"Good-bye, my son," Caine said, his voice louder now, as if he'd gone over to the door. "I love you."

"I love you too."

I shrank closer to the wall, holding my breath and trying as best I could to blank my mind and erase my presence from whatever ambient mental vibrations Caine had the habit of picking up on. He moved almost soundlessly when he walked, but I knew he had to be just on the other side of the wall, maybe even taking a quick farewell glimpse into this room before he left. What if he walked in and discovered me hiding here?

He didn't. After an eternity, I heard the door at the end of the hall close softly. Caine was gone. If I got real lucky, I'd be able to leave without attracting Peter's attention.

All was quiet, so I dared a look around the door jamb. No one in sight. Good. I slipped out into the hall. Only part of the other room was visible, but it was enough for me to see that Peter had gone out on the balcony. I tiptoed rapidly down the hall and out the door, breathing a sigh of relief as I closed it behind me. I headed down the stairwell, glad to have made my escape undetected.

As I went down the first flight, I realized the dusty little window on the landing looked out on the street where Caine had to come out, if he hadn't gotten too far ahead of me.

I hurried over, leaning close against the dirty glass in order to get the right angle. Sure enough, there he was standing in the snow-covered street, his duffel bag over one shoulder and his flute on his back, wearing his familiar hat and coat. He stopped short and looked back up at his balcony. Perhaps Peter had called down to him?

He smiled and shrugged. Although I could barely hear his voice, I could see his mouth so I'm pretty sure he said, "Come to Chinatown. Ask for Caine."

"He will help you," I filled in for myself, knowing that would have to be Peter's reply.

Caine turned and began walking down the crowded street. And there was nothing I could do to call him back.

I clenched my hands into fists and jammed them into my coat pockets, in order to avoid driving them through the window glass out of sheer frustration. The feel of crushed paper beneath one hand reminded me of that job in Alaska. I didn't have to nurture this hurt. I could still put all this behind me, if I truly wanted to. I could do as Caine had done and just leave.

I shook my head slightly, my eyes never leaving Caine's back as he continued on down the street.

Perhaps some people find what they need by going and some by staying. I thought this time maybe I'd try staying.

After all, he might well come back some day. I had said good-by to him once before and never figured to see him again, so I guess you can never be certain what the future will bring. He might come back. But then again, he might not. I guess I've got to be prepared for that possibility too.

I could hardly see him now, for all the people rushing to and fro. If he hadn't been taller than most of them, I'd have lost track of him already.

With my forehead pressed against the cold windowpane, I kept watching until he disappeared from sight.

 

Good-bye, Kwai Chang Caine. Because of you, I learned a lot of things. Because of you, I survived depression and despair, and discovered a new path. Because of you, I regained my honor and my sense of worth. I'll hear your words in my head for the rest of my life, and I'll remember always what it felt like when you hugged me. I won't forget, not the good times or the bad. Whether or not you ever walk back into my life, I won't forget any of it. Go in peace and honor, my Master and my friend.

 

And come back soon. Remember, you promised.


	9. A Friend of the Family

A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY

I'm not sure I want to tell you about what happened at the Circle 5 Ranch because you'll probably just figure I've gone off the deep end at last. And who knows? Maybe you'd be right. Let me back up a little first and get a running start, before I bring up the weird stuff, okay?

It all began not long after Kwai Chang Caine left Chinatown, ostensibly in search of his long-lost wife. That had been a rough winter for me, and spring wasn't looking like it would be any better. I think I once said something to the effect that Caine was the light I held against the darkness. Well, the darkness had come back, but now Caine was gone, and with him had gone all my joy and hope. My tenuous peace had evaporated, and my harmony with anything was nonexistent.

Okay, so maybe I'm being melodramatic, but that's how it felt. I tried hard to remind myself that I'd fought a running battle with depression for much of my life. This was just another one of those bad times, and sooner or later, it would pass. But that didn't help much. Everything had fallen apart for me after Caine took off. Despite the herbal concoctions the Ancient had given me to take, I just couldn't pull myself together. That scared me.

A couple of times before in my 50+ years of life, things had gotten so bad that I had attempted to kill myself. I didn't intend to do that again. 

Figuring I needed a change of scene, I put in for a couple of weeks off from County General Hospital, where I work as an MRI technologist, and called my friends at the Circle 5 Ranch to find out if they were open for business this early in the season.

Remember the Circle 5? That dude ranch run by Cora Stefanchik and her four partners where Caine and I had spent a few days during our cross-country drive a number of years ago, before he'd been reunited with his son? Back then they'd been just getting ready to open and weren't too sure a dude ranch emphasizing women's place in the Old West would make it as a tourist attraction. Well, I had kept in touch with them over the intervening years and they were doing just fine.

(Those of you who recall what happened back then might be interested in knowing that things didn't work out between Montana and Waylon, but at least they parted as friends.)

Jodie Franks answered the phone. I recognized her voice right off. She had been wondering if she was gay back when we'd first met. We'd had a lot to talk about, since she knew next to nothing about being gay, whereas I've known what I was and have been comfortable with my sexual preference for most of my adult life.

"Hi, kiddo," I said, attempting to sound reasonably cheerful. "Bet you'll never guess who this is."

"Jeremy?" she hazarded.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

Her laughter came over the phone line. 

"Not many men call me 'kiddo'," she replied. "What's up?"

(Yeah, I have this bad habit of calling the young folks that. I even did it to Bobbie sometimes, my late lover. Oh well.)

"Is my invitation to come visit still good?"

"Of course! When can we expect you?"

"How about next week?"

"There's not much going on around here just yet," she replied doubtfully. "Summer would be more exciting."

"I'm not looking for excitement, just a break from my usual routine. Besides, I seem to remember you promised me riding lessons if I ever came back. That will keep me busy enough."

"Okay. Which day next week? Shall I pick you up at the airport or are you driving?"

We arranged the mundane details easily enough. Three days later, I was in Wyoming, surrounded by breath-taking scenery, old friends with a lot of catching up to do, and huge, mean, vicious, contrary horses.

So okay, I'm exaggerating. The horses only seemed that way when I was trying to ride them. I did get the hang of it after a while, but I spent most of the first few days of my vacation walking and sitting rather gingerly. I had aches where I didn't even know I had muscles.

By now I suppose you're wondering when I'm going to get to the weird part of my story. So far it's been pretty ordinary, right? Bear with me. We're almost there. I won't dwell on the delicious meals cooked old-style over an open hearth, or the long evenings we spent talking in front of the fire, or Jodie's fine hammer dulcimer playing, or any of that other boring stuff.

Jodie eventually pronounced me ready to go for my first solo ride on the trails. She picked out a gentle, reliable mare and sent me off with a canteen of water, a picnic lunch, and a map of the ranch. In honor of this momentous occasion, I had even donned the tie-dyed purple and gold bandanna she had given me as a parting gift last time I'd been there.

I started out doing pretty good, following the trails, admiring the scenery, and trying not to be intimidated by my horse. (I'm sorry to say that I intimidate real easy, if something's significantly bigger than I am.)

When I got as far as the small river that crossed the far end of the Circle 5's property, I noticed on my map that there was a waterfall just a short way downstream. Figuring to take a quick look at that and then head home, I kicked my mount into a brisk trot along the path following the riverbank.

It wasn't much of a waterfall, just a thirty foot drop over a fairly steep hillside studded with boulders, but it was pleasant to watch the water foam and dash itself into spray, sending a moist breeze through the surrounding trees and bushes. Letting my horse crop some grass at the edge of the trail, I sat peacefully enjoying the scenery and reflecting with a certain amount of smug satisfaction on the success of my impromptu vacation. If nothing else, all the activity had diverted my mind from the endless litany of depression and hopelessness that had been running ever since Caine had left town. 

As I stared downstream at the bright rays of sunshine glittering on the tumbling water, I fell into a kind of peaceful reverie. I even blinked a couple of times, as an almost hypnotic drowsiness threatened to overtake me. An occasional bird twittered in the trees, insects droned their songs, the water splashed and gurgled. If I hadn't still been sitting on my horse, I'd have been about ready to fall asleep, it was that soothing.

The peace was abruptly shattered by a sharp clang. I saw a bright flash coming from somewhere downstream, as if sunlight had reflected off a metal surface.

Startled, I did exactly the wrong thing. I jerked back on the reins, at the same time clamping my legs around the horse and digging my heels into her sides. Confused by my contradictory instructions, the poor beast reared up on her hind legs. As you may have guessed, I fell off, landing flat on my back on the rocky ground and striking my head sharply. I must have lost consciousness for a moment, because I came to with this sickening swirling sensation, almost as if I were still falling. I closed my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass before I opened them again and sat up.

My horse was nowhere in sight. I would have worried more about that except that the clanging noise sounded again and distracted me. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the river, perhaps downstream from the waterfall, but I knew there was nothing there. My head hurt a bit and I felt a small cut where I had hit the ground, but not enough to seriously bother me or to dampen my curiosity. On hands and knees, I crept cautiously closer to the riverbank, parting the bushes and peering over the edge.

There were a couple of tents in a clear spot of ground a little ways down and across the water. But they were like no tents I had ever seen, since they were solid black except for some white squiggly designs. They looked more like something you'd see in medieval Europe than in the American West, except for one thing: a large black banner with a distinctly Chinese-looking winged dragon emblazoned in gold.

I was absolutely certain those tents hadn't been there just a moment ago, nor had there been the grouping of men I could see in front of the tents, in the midst of what appeared to be a pitched battle between a black-clad figure armed only with a long metal staff that ended in a wicked-looking blade and six other men wielding a variety of equally exotic weapons. At first I couldn't be sure if this was a real fight or a practice bout, but one thing was certain: the man with the staff was getting the better of the contest. He fought with an easy grace and skill that allowed him to disarm his opponents one by one, even though they too seemed very good at what they were doing. 

I concluded it was a practice session when I realized no one was being hurt, but only symbolically defeated by a touch of the glittering blade.

I wasn't close enough to make out the face of the Grand Dragon, as I had dubbed him in consideration of the pennant that stirred in the slight breeze over the camp, but he struck me as a somewhat older man, as opposed to the younger men who were attacking him. They were all Chinese. As I watched the black-robed figure, a sense of impending menace came over me. (Well, actually, I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.) Maybe these folks wouldn't take kindly to my spying on them. Somehow, they didn't look to be the friendly type.

I backed away from the riverbank, mightily puzzled over what I had seen. What in blazes would a bunch of exotic martial artists be doing on a dude ranch? I knew they weren't guests, since I had already met the two families who were the only other folks staying here at present.

Once I'd gotten far enough away, I rose shakily to my feet. My horse was nowhere around. Perhaps she had run away, frightened by the metallic clangor of the fight?

Okay, then I was on foot. Not the worst problem. I knew roughly where I was from the maps I'd had, so I figured if I backtracked about a quarter of a mile down the trail and then headed directly to my right for a little ways, I'd come to the highway that formed one border of the ranch. From there I could probably flag down a car and get a ride to the Circle 5 or into the nearby town of Taylor's Junction.

Everything went according to plan until I got clear of the woods and came out alongside what should have been a two-lane road. It wasn't quite the highway I had expected, being only a rutted dirt track. Had I made a wrong turn somewhere, or had my memory been playing tricks on me? I didn't think I'd hit my head all that hard.

At any rate, there was a horse-drawn wagon coming towards me on this poor excuse for a road, heading in the direction of town. As it got closer, I could make out the driver to be an elderly man with grey whiskers, dressed in faded jeans and a denim shirt with a tattered straw hat shading his face.

I waved hopefully as the wagon came abreast of me.

"Need a ride, stranger?" the old man asked. There was a wariness in his eyes as he looked me up and down, and I noticed a holstered six-gun on his right hip.

"I sure would be obliged."

He gestured at the seat, so I climbed up next to him. With a slap of the reins on the horse's rump, we were in motion again.

"What'cha doin' on foot away out here?"

"My horse threw me and I hit my head. When I came to, the darn beast was gone," I explained, not mentioning the rest of what I'd seen. "So I started walking."

"Lucky fer you I came along. This here road ain't too well-traveled. You'd have hiked a good ten miles before you came to town."

The distance pretty well matched the map in my head, but my companion's estimate of the likely traffic flow seemed wrong. The highway had been reasonably busy, if I remembered correctly. But then again, this obviously wasn't the highway.

Or was it? As we continued along, I spotted the river crossing the road up ahead. That seemed right, except the bridge was made of wood, instead of concrete.

After that, I kept a sharp eye out as we jounced slowly along. My vigilance was eventually rewarded by a crude signpost where a smaller dirt track branched off from the road we were following. My initial assumption proved correct: we were heading toward Taylor's Junction.

But the hand-painted road sign wasn't exactly the latest design used by the Department of Transportation, and the ramshackle grouping of wooden buildings that soon came into sight looked nothing like the modern town I knew. Where the hell was I, then?

That's when it struck me that I had the location right, but the time period wrong. Consider: an unpaved road instead of a highway, a horse-drawn wagon instead of a pickup truck, a grizzled old man sitting next to me wearing a six-gun. When else could I be but sometime during the latter part of the last century?

You may think this realization would have shocked me, but everything looked so perfectly ordinary and natural that I just kind of went along and accepted what had happened, without trying to reason it out.

What else could I do, under the circumstances? If I had started asking all kinds of questions and raved about being from some other time, I'd doubtless have been ordered off the wagon by my so-far sociable although taciturn companion. I had no idea how I'd gotten into the past, but I knew full well my best chance of survival lay in acting as if I belonged there. Any other course of action would have landed me in the local equivalent of the looney bin. 

Fortunately, my clothes weren't such as to give me away, since I was wearing fairly old jeans and a plain denim shirt, with my bandanna knotted around my neck. A beat-up cowboy hat borrowed from Jodie completed the outfit. Even my eyeglasses weren't obviously wrong, since they were old-style wireframes. If anyone looked closely and noticed the modern additions, like plastic nosepieces, I figured I could say I'd ordered them from someplace back East and they were the latest style.

At least Taylor's Junction wasn't entirely unknown to me. I'd seen it in the present and I'd once spent a few hours with Caine in the town's historical museum. That gave me a clue as to what to expect as we plodded past a few out-lying homesteads and then headed into the cluster of wooden buildings up ahead. The road quickly became the town's main street.

Yep. Taylor's Junction looked pretty much like the set for a Western movie, with a bank, general store, and saloon, surrounded by a good number of weather-beaten stores and houses.

As we passed through one section of town, I was momentarily surprised to find that the signs were in Chinese, not to mention the fact that the scattering of pedestrians were clearly oriental. Then I recalled that there had been a fairly good-sized population of Chinese at one time, mostly railroad workers who had settled down to steady employment in a coal mine not far away.

At the edge of this local Chinatown, I caught a glimpse of a "Help Wanted" sign in front of a stable. That little bit of practical reality turned my thoughts from historical reflection to economic necessity. By whatever means and for whatever reasons, I was undoubtedly here and would have to find a way to survive. The money in my wallet was of no more value here than my credit cards would be.

The wagon pulled up in front of the general store.

"This here's as far as I go, friend," the driver told me laconically, clearly indicating I was to get off.

"Thanks for the ride," I said as I climbed down. Then I added as an afterthought, "I'll be needing some work. Got any ideas where I should look?"

The old man gave me another one of his appraising glances and rubbed his whiskery chin with one hand as he considered. "Might try the saloon," he suggested at last. "Harry was lookin' for another bartender last time I was in there. Last one got hisself shot for waterin' down the drinks."

Well, that would beat shoveling horseshit at the stable.

"Thanks, I may just do that," I replied brightly. "Come in sometime and I'll buy you a drink."

He gave me the barest hint of a smile and a brief wave as I started down the street towards the Black Nugget Saloon. (This is a coal town, remember.)

To make a long story short, I got the job. Not only that, but it even included a place to stay, at least for the time being. The Black Nugget also served as the local whorehouse, and one of the ladies had recently quit, running off with a footloose gambler. She'd left her room in a total mess, so Harry told me I could use it until he hired a replacement, if I'd clean it up.

When I went through the closet, I found several suits of clothes, perhaps the gambler's cast-offs. Apparently, he hadn't been a whole lot taller than I am, because a bit of tucking and sewing made most everything fit me fairly well. I liked the white shirts with their fancy collars and cuffs. The gaudy, if somewhat faded, silk vests weren't bad either. Inspecting myself in the cracked mirror over the dresser, I figured I looked like a pretty good approximation of a frontier bartender.

I was good at the job too. The ladies liked the sweet concoctions I knew how to whip up, and I made sure the men never had cause to accuse me of watering down their whiskey. Harry was glad to see that I never sampled the merchandise while I was working. Although I've been known to drink to excess when I get depressed, the absolute necessity of being completely sober for my job at the hospital had trained me well. Under normal circumstances, I'm basically a social drinker, not an alcoholic. Harry liked that idea. After all, you don't want a drunk for a bartender, do you?

All went well for the first couple of days. I fit in, made enough money to get by, and didn't spend a lot of time trying to figure out how I had gotten here, since I hadn't a clue.

Then everything fell apart in one night, when a bunch of rather obnoxious drifters wandered into the Black Nugget.

There were four of them, none very young, and all quite dirty. They proceeded to get drunk on the cheapest liquor I could offer and then began pestering the ladies for free samples of what they had for sale. I tried kidding around with them at first, hoping they'd leave peacefully. I saw Harry watching them from the corner table, where he usually sat to keep an eye on things. He was pretty tall and very muscular and usually took care of rowdy customers without too many wasted motions, but I'd have preferred to show him I could handle the situation myself.

I was doing pretty well too, until they waved me over to their table and ordered another round of drinks that I was reasonably certain they didn't have the money to pay for. Rather than refusing outright to serve them, I attempted to convince them they'd had enough and really wanted to go away and sleep it off. I thought they were buying it when the one with the loudest mouth and most obnoxious manners stood up. He was right next to me, so I had to look up to see his face.

He ran a hand over my frilly shirtfront and then on up across my cheek.

"Pretty fancy dude, ain't he now?" he announced to his friends. He grabbed a handful of my hair, pulling me close enough to smell his whiskey-sodden breath as he asked scornfully, "Maybe you'd be willing to give us what these other fine ladies seem so reluctant to provide? Or have I figured you wrong?"

Damn! People always seem to know I'm gay, even though I do my level best not to appear particularly effeminate. I never have known how they do it, but they do.

"You've figured me wrong if you think I'd even consider the likes of you," I hissed furiously, preferring not to actually deny being gay if I could avoid it.

I grabbed the fingers in my hair, simultaneously ducking down, twisting around, and digging my thumb into a tender spot on the back of his hand. (Thank you, Kwai Chang Caine, for teaching me that little trick!) He yelped and let me go, stumbling back into the table and tipping it sideways in the process.

"You little son-of-a-bitch!" Loudmouth said as he got up. "I'll teach you a lesson you'll never --"

He cut off all of a sudden and tumbled gracelessly back to the floor as Harry cold-cocked him with the butt of his pistol.

"Okay," the big man ordered laconically. "You three pick him up and haul your sorry asses out of here, before I get really pissed."

I beat a hasty retreat behind the bar while they did as they were told. Harry watched until they were gone, then sauntered over to me.

"Thanks, boss," I said, hoping he wasn't about to fire me for being a pervert.

"Pour yourself a drink, Jeremy. You look as if you could use it." He went back to the corner table. I still had my job. That was a relief.

Nevertheless, I was pretty shaken up over the incident. Ignoring Harry's offer of free liquor, I busied myself polishing and re-stacking the glasses, just to have something to do with my hands so they wouldn't shake. My back was to the bar when a soft voice behind me asked, "May I have ... some water, please?"

I looked around at the unusual request. My mind had already half-processed the familiar voice or I probably wouldn't have been able to hide my surprise as well as I did.

Just across the stained surface of the bar, there stood a total stranger that I nevertheless knew very well. He looked like Caine, but about twenty years younger and quite a bit thinner. Since the Kwai Chang Caine I knew couldn't possibly be here, this had to be the famous grandfather whose name he bore.

"Uh-- yeah, sure," I managed to say, fumbling for a glass and filling it from the water pitcher without even watching what I was doing. I literally couldn't take my eyes off of the man. He wore a black and white Chinese outfit, fairly new-looking underneath a layer of dust. His hair was long, dark brown, and hanging well below his shoulders. He had the prettiest eyes, and lips that just begged to be kissed. On the whole, he was, as they say, to die for. Or at least that's how he seemed to me.

I held out the glass. "Here you go, friend. Anything else I can do for you?" I added, hoping to keep him standing there for a while just so I could look at him.

Taking a small pouch out of his shoulder bag, which could easily have been the same one the present-day Caine still carried, he added some gray powder to the water and drank a mouthful before replying, "I need ... work. And a place to stay."

This was said with some hesitation, as if he were unsure of a favorable reaction. No one else in the bar seemed to be paying much attention to him, so I concluded it wasn't unusual for Chinese, or half-Chinese in his case, to frequent this establishment.

I recalled the sign I'd seen as I'd come into town. "Try the livery stable, down the end of the street to the right. I think they're looking for help. That is, if you don't mind taking care of horses."

Caine smiled slightly and shrugged. "I ... like horses. I will go there." Draining the glass, he replaced it carefully on the counter. "Thank you," he said softly.

"You're welcome," I replied.

Nodding to me in what was almost a bow, he turned and walked out through the swinging doors.

"Bartender! More drinks down here!"

I tore my unwilling eyes off Caine's departing figure and hastened to attend to my other customers, while my mind tried hard to assimilate the incredible coincidence of running into this one particular person out of all the others who lived in this time period.

Or maybe it was no coincidence after all, but some strange quirk of destiny?

 

Later on that evening, things got even worse. Two Chinese types came in, but they didn't order drinks. Instead, I saw them going from table to table, bowing obsequiously and holding out a large paper, obviously showing it to people and asking questions. I glanced at Harry, inclining my head towards the Chinamen and raising an eyebrow. Problem? Harry shook his head and shrugged.

Okay. Let them be and see what happens.

Eventually they got around to me. They were dressed in fairly typical oriental clothes, nothing fancy, no visible weapons. When the shorter of the two spoke, it was with a thick accent. 

"Excuse me. You have seen this man?" 

He laid the paper on the bar and I saw that it was a Wanted poster.

As you've doubtless guessed, it was the one for Kwai Chang Caine. The picture wasn't a great likeness: he was totally bald and looked pretty mean. If I hadn't known him already, I'm not sure I'd have recognized him just from that, considering the long hair he now wore.

The reward offered was $5,000 dead or $10,000 alive, which meant someone wanted him alive pretty badly. (Five or ten grand may not sound like much today, but it was one heck of a lot of money back then, as I now knew from personal experience.)

Stalling for time, I made a show of examining the poster carefully, while watching the two Chinamen out of the corner of my eye. I caught sight of an all-too-familiar design stitched into the collar of the otherwise nondescript gray jackets they wore: a winged dragon, identical to the one on the pennant that flew over those strange tents I'd seen beside the river a couple of days ago. These were definitely not people I wanted to help find Caine.

Trying to look as if I regretted not being able to earn that tempting reward money, I shook my head. "Sorry. I don't know where he is."

Well, I hadn't exactly lied, had I? After all, I didn't know where he was at that precise moment. He might have gone to the stable, as I'd suggested, or he might not. Or he might not have gotten the job. They didn't have to know I was being so literal. (Not that I wouldn't have lied flat out to protect Caine, but I'm not very good at it. I'm far more convincing if I just bend the truth a little.)

With another sketchy bow, the two Dragon Boys, as I promptly dubbed them, moved on to Harry's table. I saw Harry shake his head also. Apparently, no one else recognized Caine from the poster, or perhaps they simply hadn't been in the saloon earlier, when he had been there.

 

As soon as we closed down for the night, I headed for the stable where I'd sent Caine, planning to warn him about the Dragon folks. Of course, I had no way of knowing if he'd actually be there, but I figured "Come to Chinatown. Ask for Caine" wouldn't have worked, under the present circumstances.

I wondered briefly if I would somehow change the past by warning him. Was that even possible? In much of our popular fiction, you can go back and try to make things right, but is this what I'm doing? Or am I just acting out what was fated to happen, one way or the other? 

In the final analysis, it really didn't matter. On a practical basis, I knew full well I'd do whatever it took to keep Caine safe, just on general principles.

When I reached the stable, no one was around. Not surprising, as it was almost dawn by then. However, the "Help Wanted" sign was gone, so there was a chance Caine had been hired and was somewhere in the vicinity. The high wooden door stood slightly ajar and a faint light shone from inside. I slid quietly through the opening and into a distinctly horsey smell.

"Hello? Caine? You here?" I called softly. If he was asleep, I didn't want to startle him. Startled martial artists can be dangerous.

No answer. In the dim light of a lantern, I could see a rough bunk in an alcove along the far wall. Otherwise, it looked pretty much like a fairly empty stable. A wagon with a broken seat occupied one of the stalls and a horse snorted curiously somewhere in the further darkness, but business obviously wasn't booming.

I walked over to the lighted area. A white shirt and black jacket lay spread carefully over the bunk, with Caine's suede shoulder bag on the pillow. Surely he couldn't be too far away.

"Caine?" I said again, figuring he might be somewhere in the shadows, watching the intruder. "It's me. The bartender. I need to talk to you."

I heard scuffling noises behind me and turned around, still hopeful. "Caine?"

"Guess again, pretty boy," said a voice I recognized as the obnoxious loudmouth from earlier in the evening. In the lantern light, I could make out the four drunks who had hassled me standing just inside the door.

Oh, shit! I thought as they came over to me.

"I'm not a pretty boy," I objected. "And you have no business here."

"Waal," one of the others drawled, "maybe you ain't no boy, but I'd say you're kind of purty, if'n I squint my eyes a bit."

Before I could react, he grabbed me and pulled me against his body, his hands exploring my ass.

Maybe you think this sort of thing didn't happen in the old days, just because it isn't in the John Wayne movies? Think again. This is a mining town: there are almost no women. Homosexual behavior shows up in virtually every all male environment. The men don't even have to be gay, just horny. There aren't too many other possibilities, except for the local prostitutes, and we've already established these fellows had no money left.

I brought my knee up between his legs. He let me go, but the others wasted little time in joining the fray. Although I got in a few good kicks and punches, I was badly outclassed and I knew it, but I was determined to go down fighting.

"Okay, bartender, hold it right there."

I felt the cold metal of a gun barrel against the side of my face and heard the click as the hammer was drawn back and cocked. As ordered, I held it right there.

"Waal now, that's much better," drawled the one I had dubbed Loudmouth. "You may not be too interested in giving it away, pretty boy, but we're going to have us some fun tonight, one way or another. And you're going to cooperate, or Phil here is going to put a bullet through your brain. You understand?"

Oh yeah, I understood real well, although I was far from happy about it.

In fact, I was pretty damn mad as Loudmouth shoved me facedown over the tailgate of the wagon and I felt someone pull down my trousers. 

Angry or not, I resigned myself to enduring what was going to be an uncomfortable experience at best. While it's certainly not a case of relax and enjoy it, it is a case of relax and it won't hurt as much. The only consolation was that I didn't have to worry about AIDS. And I didn't really think they'd kill me, as long as they got what they wanted.

I suppose I could have kept trying to resist, but if it comes to a choice of being raped or having my head blown off, I'll take rape any day. Perhaps I'd have felt differently if I were straight, but, while there are some things I might be willing to die for, the inviolability of my asshole isn't one of them. I knew it wouldn't be very pleasant. After all, we had no such modern amenities as KY jelly at hand and I sincerely doubted my drunken assailants would bother to be considerate of my comfort, but I can handle rough sex. I don't honestly consider rape to be a fate worse than death. 

(Don't get me wrong: there are fates worse than death. It's just that, to me at least, this isn't one of them. There are a whole lot of much worse things that can be done to people. Besides, there are children not even old enough to walk being raped by their fathers and other relatives all the time. Save your sympathy for them.)

The third SOB had his prick up my ass when he was rather rudely interrupted. I heard someone crash into a wall, then the gun disappeared from next to my face. I turned to see what was going on.

As you may well have guessed, Kwai Chang Caine had returned and decided he didn't like what he found taking place in his humble abode. I watched as he sent my erstwhile tormentors flying in several different directions. Like the Caine I knew in modern times, he made it seem so easy, almost as if he were dancing instead of fighting.

For my part, I enjoyed simply looking at him, despite what had just happened to me. He wore nothing but his black trousers, while his long hair was soaking wet, dripping runnels of water down his bare chest. At a guess, I'd have said he'd recently come from washing up in the river that ran by the town.

When the last drunken oaf had finally picked himself up off the floor and fled, belatedly deciding any further attempts to subdue this particular Chinaman would be unsuccessful, Caine turned his attention to me. I looked away real fast, hoping he wouldn't see the desire in my eyes. 

Although I had pulled up my pants as rapidly as I could, you'd have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind, not to mention totally naive, not to realize what those guys had been doing. I didn't think Caine was any of those things.

Busying myself with tucking my shirttails into my trousers, I dared not glance directly at Caine as he walked over closer to me and rested a hand on my shoulder. I was afraid I'd see disgust or censure in his eyes, even though I certainly hadn't been a willing participant in the proceedings. He could hardly have missed seeing the gun at my head.

It's always been my opinion that you needn't be ashamed of what other people do to you against your will. Your own freely-chosen actions are all that can truly shame you. Dishonor belongs to the rapist, not the victim. Often enough, it isn't the rape itself that destroys a person's self-esteem: it's the silence afterwards, if you don't speak out, or the subtle censure of society, if you do. 

"Are you ... all right?" Caine asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry. This kind of thing happens to me all the time."

He looked at me strangely. Well, why not? I'd just said I got raped on a routine basis, hadn't I? I tried again.

"Uh -- I mean, not exactly like this but --"

I realized I was only getting in deeper. Now what? I doubted that "gay" would mean anything to him, in this day and age.

I shrugged. "I'm not hurt much. Nothing I can't deal with." Caine didn't pursue the subject any further, much to my relief. "Thanks for getting rid of those creeps."

"Creeps?" he asked, sounding about as perplexed at the modern slang as his grandson often did.

"Yeah. Creeps. Like, creatures so low they crawled out from under a rock somewhere."

He digested that one, hopefully not planning to add it to his vocabulary. "You are ... welcome," he responded gravely, harking back to my previous remark.

He took his hand off my shoulder. Going over to the bunk, he picked up his white shirt and pulled it on, then began drying his hair on a ragged bit of toweling.

"You are the ... bartender, are you not? Why ... are you here?"

Damn! In all the excitement, I had entirely forgotten my original reason for coming to the stable. Now I had something definite to talk about, and a reason to be with him.

"Some Chinese folks came into the saloon looking for you. They had a Wanted poster." He blinked and a look came into his lovely hazel eyes that was somewhere between anger and sorrow. "I wanted to warn you to get out of town. I wasn't real sure I'd find you here, but I figured it was as good a place as any to start."

"Why would you warn me? You do not even know me."

"I didn't like their looks?"

He wasn't buying that, I could see it in his face.

"Caine, you've got to get out of here! I've seen these people before. They work for a scary guy in a black robe. If he's out to get you, you're in trouble. Please --"

"You said ... they showed you a ... poster?"

I nodded.

"Why would you wish to help ... someone who is sought for murder?" he persisted. Despite the coldness in his voice, I didn't think his anger was directed at me.

"Because I know why you killed the Emperor's nephew and I know you're not a murderer," I said without thinking. "I'd have done the same thing, if someone had shot my Master."

He took a step backwards, looking as if he was about ready to fall into one of his defensive postures. Great. Now I had spooked him for sure.

"Look, you've got to believe me! I just want you to get the hell out of Taylor's Junction before these people catch up with you. I know you're a great fighter and all, but this Dragon guy is dangerous and I --"

He cut off my torrent of words with a quick gesture. "How ... do you know me?"

Good question. I answered as honestly as I could. "I know one of your relatives. He told me about you."

"My brother, Daniel Caine?"

There was an urgent eagerness in his voice that I hated to disappoint, but I had no choice. If I'd said yes, he'd have wanted to know where his brother was.

"Uh ... no."

"Who then?"

I had to think fast to avoid a flat-out lie, and yet not tell the entire truth. "Someone who isn't alive now."

This answer appeared to satisfy him, although I didn't know why. How many dead relatives could he have in this country, if he couldn't even get up with his own brother? At least he wasn't looking at me quite so distrustfully anymore.

"Forgive me. I have ... learned ... to be wary." 

He sat down cross-legged at the foot of his bunk, waving me to a seat at the other end.

"Thanks, but I think I'll stand. Sitting isn't real comfortable right now."

He didn't reply to that, saying only, "You mentioned a ... dragon?"

I nodded, glad he was finally willing to listen. I described in detail what I'd seen outside of town, and the two Dragon Boys who had come into the saloon searching for him.

He heard me out without the slightest flicker of emotion crossing his face. Then he leaned forward, smoothed a patch of the dusty dirt floor in front of his bunk, and sketched a quick design with one finger.

"The dragon on the pennant ... did it look like this?" he asked when he was done.

I leaned over, squinting through my bifocals in the dim light. "Yeah. Exactly like that."

He sighed unhappily as he straightened up. "I know these people," he said. "I have met some of them before."

Yeah, and he hadn't come out entirely on top that last time, either. He didn't say that, but I could see it in the slight slump of his shoulders. His body language was so much like the Caine I knew that it was relatively easy for me to read his unspoken feelings.

My insatiable curiosity asserted itself full strength. "Then maybe you'll tell me who they are?" I prompted hopefully. I was dying to know what kind of shit I had stepped in this time.

"The Order of the Avenging Dragon," he explained slowly. "The Imperial Guard, who were ... greatly dishonored when they failed to protect the Emperor's nephew from a lowly Shaolin priest. They have been hunting me ... for several years."

Uh-oh. Deep shit. The slight hint of irony in his words was overpowered by the sadness in his voice. This made me even more certain that when he'd tangled with these folks in the past, it had cost him dearly.

"You are right," he concluded. "They are ... very dangerous."

"So you'll take my advice and clear out of here?"

"No. I ... must stay."

"But I just told you --"

He cut off my objection with a raised palm, saying only, "As they are honor-bound to come, I am honor-bound to stay."

The phrase had the sound of something he'd said once before. There was this real faint smile on his lips and his eyes were focused somewhere beyond me.

"What has honor got to do with this?" I objected, trying to recall him to reality. We had more to worry about just now than memories. "You've got to get away before they find you."

"It is perhaps not something you would understand."

I knew enough about intercultural differences not to be insulted by this, even if it might have sounded as if he were impugning my sense of honor.

Besides, what did I really know about honor? I'd have sold my soul to keep Caine from harm. It was that simple. Some abstract principle didn't seem sufficient justification for him to risk his life.

"I understand they're coming to kill you -- and you usually try to avoid such confrontations," I pointed out.

He looked up at me as if he were just now seeing me for the first time, despite all that had gone before.

"Who ... are ... you?" he asked at last.

"Jeremy Joseph Langsten," I answered, deliberately avoiding the true meaning of his question. "Look, it doesn't matter who I am. I just don't want to see you killed or taken captive by these Dragon people."

He shrugged, as if it didn't really matter. "I must face them. They wish only to redeem their own honor, ... since I committed such a ... grievous wrong against the Imperial Family."

I wasn't ready to give up yet.

"Are you really so fond of that Emperor of yours?" I demanded. "After all, you've lived in this country for quite some time now. That's got to have given you a different perspective on things. The world has changed a lot in the last couple of hundred years. Who knows what may happen next? Even China may not always be governed by emperors."

He only smiled a little as he countered, "How well do you know China, Jeremy Langsten?"

I knew the last Emperor of the Qing Dynasty fell from power in the early 20th Century, but I could hardly try to tell him that. But then again, how often have I heard Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping referred to as "Red Emperors"? Is there really such a big difference? An Emperor by any other name is an Emperor still.

"The killing of any man would dishonor me, even had he not been the Royal Nephew," Caine said into my silence.

"Maybe so. But would anyone bother to chase you across an ocean and all over a foreign country to avenge the death of an ordinary man? Not to mention putting such a generous price on your head?"

That careless shrug again. "What might have been ... does not matter. What I have done, I have done. The Order of the Avenging Dragon will not cease to pursue me as long as I live. Whether I face them now or later ... is of little importance."

Even apart from your own life, I thought, it's of some importance whether or not you live long enough to have a son, not to mention a grandson. But I couldn't exactly say that, could I?

Besides, he was looking off into the distance again and I doubted he'd hear me even if I spoke. I touched his shoulder, trying to pull him back into the present. Instead, I saw in my mind the robed and hooded form of the Grand Dragon and heard a harsh, whispery, slightly accented voice saying sardonically, "What have you won, priest? Respite? Time? For surely, you know the heart of the beast still lives, grows, reaches out. Where will you go to escape it, except to the heart of the heart, where you and I must meet."

The voice faded into silence. And the stable was back around us once again.

"That's the one I've been calling the Grand Dragon," I said softly, still somewhat shaken by the weird vision.

Caine just nodded. No explanation. No surprise that I had apparently seen and heard the same thing he had.

"So I take it you're not going to run away?" I asked.

"No, I ... am not. But I thank you for the warning, Jeremy. Especially since it cost you ..." he hesitated longer than usual before he chose a word "... much ... to deliver it."

I still had my hand on his shoulder. This would have been a perfect opening, if I had wanted to come on to him. He was just so gorgeous, with the long hair and all. But I figured this Caine was no gayer than the one I knew, so I'd probably be wasting my time. Or worse, I'd destroy the tentative trust and friendship we had established.

Not worth it, no matter how tempted I might be. With a mental sigh, I dropped my hand and took a step backwards.

"Don't worry about what happened to me," I told him. "Just be careful, huh? I meant what I said about not wanting to see you get hurt."

"I ... do not understand your concern, ... since you barely know me."

I smiled my most gracious smile, hoping to win him over. "Let's just say I'm a friend of the family, okay? If there's anything I can do, you know where to find me."

"I will ... remember that," he replied very seriously.

I left quickly, before I could have second thoughts.

 

The following night, the Dragon's minions returned to the saloon with their poster and set about questioning a fresh batch of customers. If nothing else, that at least let me know they hadn't yet found Caine. I was beginning to hope they never would when Loudmouth and his scurvy friends sauntered in the door and lined up along the bar, calling loudly for drinks.

Acting as if last night hadn't happened, I set them up as quickly and casually as I could. One of them leered at me, but I ignored it. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to these louts. In fact, part of the reason I hadn't gone to the sheriff and charged them with assault, above and beyond not being particularly interested in publicizing the fact that I'd been raped, was that I'd have had to explain about Caine. Not a good idea, considering his relationship with the law.

I even put double shots of whiskey in their glasses, hoping that the Dragon Boys wouldn't bother with a bunch of soused cowhands.

No such luck. When I saw the two gray-clad men coming our way, I moved to the other end of the bar. Maybe Loudmouth and his cronies wouldn't recognize Caine from that awful likeness, or maybe they wouldn't be willing to admit that a Chinaman beat the shit out of them.

No luck on that score either. No sooner did Loudmouth lay eyes on the poster than he announced cheerfully, "Yeah, sure, we know this fucker. Why?"

"We wish to find him. Where is he?"

"What's it worth to you?"

This drew blank looks from the two Orientals, so Loudmouth elaborated. "How much will you pay to know?"

"Ah!" the taller of the two said in sudden comprehension. Taking out a small leather sack, he placed it on the bar, inviting Loudmouth to look inside. 

When he did, he was apparently impressed with what he saw. "Chinaman, you got yourself a deal. Try the livery stable down the other end of the street." He reached for the sack, but the other man put a hand around his wrist.

"If the one we seek is there, then the money will be yours," the Head Dragon Boy said, no longer sounding quite so obsequious.

I thought Loudmouth was going to object, but his wrist was still clamped firmly and I saw him wince.

"Okay. That's fair enough. But how do I know I can trust you, now that I've given you the information?"

"I will remain here. Chow Fong will go to the stable." Releasing the other man's wrist, he placed a coin on the bar. "Let us all have a drink, while we wait."

That was my cue. Chow hurried out the door as I hastened to serve more liquor, trying to keep calm. Caine could surely take out one guy. Or maybe he wouldn't be there. Maybe he'd even left town, despite what he'd said. Maybe he'd -- what? I was fresh out of possibilities.

Chow Fong returned all too soon. "No one is there," he reported. His partner picked up the leather sack.

"Now hold on a minute, friend," Loudmouth objected. "Let's not be hasty. Maybe he just wasn't at home when you called."

"I spoke with the owner of the stable. He said the priest no longer worked for him," Chow elaborated.

Loudmouth and his cronies all looked over at me. I busied myself polishing glasses. Phil started to say something but Loudmouth overrode him. "Well, what if we locate your man? How can we find you to claim the reward?"

"We are camped south of town, by the small waterfall. Come there, if you have information of value," the Head Boy said haughtily. He turned on his heel and left the saloon, followed closely by his cohort.

 

The rest of the evening seemed to drag on interminably, as I worried about what might be happening if the Dragon folks had returned to the stable with reinforcements and found Caine. Chow Fong had said only that he'd been told the priest didn't work there anymore. Mightn't that imply the owner realized what Caine was and he'd been lying to protect a Shaolin priest? It was at least a remote possibility. Caine had been pretty definite about not running away when I'd seen him last night, so I didn't truly think he'd left town.

But then again, he could have had second thoughts and decided to make himself scarce. I had no real way of knowing where Caine was or what he might be doing. What if I went to the stable myself later on that night? If Caine were in truth still there, would he reveal himself to me? Or would Loudmouth and his friends be keeping watch, hoping to find him there? In that case, I'd do no good by getting involved.

Still torn and undecided at closing time, I climbed the stairs to my room, intending to wash up a bit while mulling over my possible courses of action. 

Somewhat refreshed by the tepid water in my washbasin, I put on my old shirt and jeans. As I tied my bandanna around my neck, I realized I had made up my mind. Try as I might to convince myself otherwise, I knew I was going to the stable. I couldn't just sit around waiting and wondering. Whatever was going to happen, I felt strongly that I had to be part of it.

And besides -- Come on, Jeremy, admit the truth! I wanted to see Caine again.

I glanced into the cracked piece of mirror above the washstand and straightened the knot on the bandanna. With any kind of luck, Loudmouth and his friends would be sound asleep somewhere by now.

I slipped quietly down the back stairs and out of the saloon. The town of Taylor's Junction lay peacefully asleep beneath a bright, almost-full moon as I picked my way along the side of a street made muddy by the thunderstorm we'd had earlier in the evening. Unfortunately, I paid too much attention to avoiding the puddles and not enough attention to my surroundings. Loudmouth stepped out of the shadows as I passed the general store.

"Going somewhere, bartender?" he asked, motioning me toward the alley alongside the store with the six-gun he held in his hand.

I backed away a few steps, but bumped into someone else, who promptly grabbed my right arm and jerked it painfully up behind my back, while simultaneously holding a knife under my chin.

"Uh -- just getting a little fresh air," I quipped lamely, cursing myself for a careless fool.

"Ha, Ha," Loudmouth said, not laughing. "Now lead us to this Caine person, or you'll have plenty of fresh air comin' in through a slit in your throat."

"What makes you think I even know where he is?"

"Waal, let's just say I got the idea you and him might be a little more'n friends, considerin' how he lit into us last night in your defense. Me an' the boys figure you can find him, if'n you really wanted to."

"And if I don't want to?"

"Oh, Harry's pretty good with that pig-sticker of his. He'd be glad to mess up your face a mite, for starters. Reckon you wouldn't be such a pretty boy anymore, once he got through with you."

I had nothing to tell them but the truth.

"I don't know where he is."

"Try again, bartender," Harry said with barely controlled menace, digging the tip of his knife into my neck.

"You can't make me tell you something that I don't know," I pointed out, justifiably terrified of what they might do to me while at the same time almost glad that I couldn't possibly be forced to betray Caine. At least I didn't have to rely on my own meager supply of courage in that regard.

However, that consideration didn't go far towards getting me out of this mess.

"I was only going to the stable to look around," I temporized. "See if he left me a note or something."

They might buy that last part, since Loudmouth had already insinuated that he thought Caine and I were lovers. I might even get them to take me to the stable. If nothing else, it would delay things for a while and give me a chance to come up with something else.

Loudmouth grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head back.

"Don't give me that crap. You were with him last night after he threw us out. You an' him had plenty of time to make plans. I think you were fixin' to meet him somewheres else, and I intend to find out where that was," he sneered. "You like them China boys, bartender? They got somethin' we ain't got?"

"Yeah," I said. "Or at least, this one does. But you wouldn't even begin to understand what it is."

Loudmouth scowled at this. I clenched my teeth and steeled myself for something nasty and painful.

Nothing happened. Instead, Loudmouth's eyes went wide with surprise. He looked down at his shoulder, where the shaft of a metal dart protruded from the fabric of his shirt. 

"What in hell --?" he began. Then his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground, followed quickly by the rest of his gang.

I looked around the alley, but saw no one. Kneeling beside Loudmouth, I felt his neck for a pulse. No, he wasn't dead, at least not yet. Must have been some kind of drug on the darts, hopefully not lethal. But who and why --?

"Stand up."

I recognized the voice of the Head Dragon Boy behind me. That settled the who, but I still needed to know the why. I rose to my feet, turned, and found myself confronting six of the now-familiar gray-clad folks.

Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! I wasn't sure I wouldn't have preferred Loudmouth and his buddies.

"You will come with us. My Master wishes to speak with you."

"Hey, look, I'm real glad you got me out of that fix, but I can't help you anymore than I could help them." I held out my hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know where Caine is. That's the truth."

"You will come with us," he repeated impassively and gave a quick nod of his head.

Something sharp stabbed the back of my neck, something that could have been the tip of a dart. I collapsed next to Loudmouth.

 

When I came to I discovered that I was a prisoner in the camp of the Grand Dragon. I also discovered that I was not in a real comfortable position, since I was pretty much hanging from my wrists, which were tied to a pole up above my head. As consciousness filtered back into my fog-infested brain, I found I could take some of the weight off my aching arms, but only by standing virtually on tiptoe, since my feet didn't quite touch the ground. It was still dark, but the sky was brightening through the trees across the river, so dawn couldn't be too far off. Judging by the pain in my shoulders and arms, I had been hanging here for some time already. This didn't look as if it was going to be much fun at all, especially when the Grand Dragon came out of one of the tents, noticed I was awake and started over in my direction.

He wore a long black robe and hood, but from up close I could see that he also had a large gold medallion with the shape of that familiar winged dragon around his neck.

"I can't tell you where he is," I said yet again.

"You will not need to," came the smug answer in the same harsh voice I had "heard" in Caine's mind the other day.

This threw me for a moment. I stared at him, trying to make out the details of his face within the shadows of the cowl. If he didn't want to know Caine's whereabouts, then what did he want me for?

"It is really very simple," he said in reply to my puzzled silence. "I have let it be known that you are my prisoner and that, unless Kwai Chang Caine comes to confront me, his friend will die a horrible death. He has until noon to appear. After that, you have until nightfall to die very slowly, so you had best hope that he gets my message quickly and decides to come."

"Son-of-a-bitch," I muttered through my teeth. This time I wasn't even going to have the chance to be a hero and refuse to betray Caine. Instead, I'd been used as bait to lure him into a trap.

And he'd come. I was sure of that. Even though he didn't know me all that well, Caine would nevertheless feel it his duty to appear. Besides, he meant to face this guy anyway, so why shouldn't he show up?

Of course, it might take some time for the ultimatum to reach him, and then more time while he made his way out here. I'd probably be stuck hanging around (no pun intended) for a while yet. I shifted my weight uneasily. Now my feet and legs were starting to hurt. It was going to be a long wait.

The Grand Dragon turned away and headed back toward his tent.

"How about letting me down from here?" I said. (Can't hurt to ask, right?)

The black-robed figure stopped and turned slowly back to me. I still couldn't make out his face.

"If you become a nuisance," he said softly, "we can make you much less comfortable."

"Uh -- that's okay. I'm fine like this."

He gave a short laugh before striding away.

So I shifted the pain back and forth from my legs to my arms as I waited for whatever was going to happen. The sun rose. Birds sang. The river gurgled and splashed over the nearby falls. A fly landed on my nose and I shook my head to chase it away. A soft breeze smelling of moisture and dampness came my way every so often.

I closed my eyes and focused my mind on all these sounds and sensations. When the sun rose above the trees and crept slowly up my body, I was able to add heat and thirst to my list of uncomfortable stimuli. And yet, I couldn't in good conscience wish for Caine to get here. I knew they'd do some seriously nasty things to him, if he fell into their hands. Of course, I could always hope he'd be able to defeat the Grand Dragon, if it came to a conflict between the two of them. But what about all the other men in the camp? In the time I'd been here, I'd seen at least twelve different people engaged in various activities. Caine was good, but was he good enough to take on so many others, not to mention the various weapons I knew they had available to them?

Come to think of it, would he even have the chance, or would he feel compelled to surrender simply to free me? And might I not just as easily be slaughtered, either way? From where I was sitting, it didn't look good for the home team.

When Caine appeared at the far edge of the clearing, it was mid-morning. He was dressed in a gold-colored outfit that shimmered like satin, with a wide red sash tied in an elaborate bow. He looked so absolutely drop-dead gorgeous that, under other circumstances, I'd have been sorely tempted to try to untie that bow around his waist.

I watched him walk slowly out of the woods and into the clear area around the tents. There was a strange look on his face, and a banked fire in his eyes. Oh yes, as I've said, he was beautiful. But it wasn't your classical sort of beauty. Alter his expression a little and he would seem sullen, hard, and maybe even just plain mean. This was normally held at bay by his mild expression and gentle mannerisms, but I could see it now, as if he was pretty angry and was momentarily unguarded. 

In rare moments, I had seen this same thing in the Caine I knew also, but it was somewhat muted, maybe because of his age and greater experience with life. In this younger man, it showed up much clearer. Funny thing though: Peter was about the same age, and I didn't get that feeling from him. No, not even when I'd seen the boy with a gun in his hand. Peter was often reckless, but I had never felt the sense of potential evil held in check that I got from Caine. Was that a fault in Caine, or a greater strength? As I've learned from my study of Taoism, all things balance. The darker the shadow, the brighter the light. For all his gentleness, Caine, both in the present and in the past, had a shadow that was dark indeed. I'm not saying either of them would ever act on that evil, but the potential was there, as it is in all of us. Most people don't have his skill and strength, though. If Caine ever allowed his self-discipline and control to falter, his Shaolin training would make him incredibly dangerous.

Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind too much if he'd try being rather dangerous just now, considering the fix I was in.

Somehow, the Grand Dragon knew his quarry had taken the bait. He opened the flap of this tent and stood motionless in the entrance.

"So you have come," the Grand Dragon said calmly.

Caine just stood there, still not looking terribly pleased about things.

"When you killed the Royal Nephew," the other man went on, "I was already head of the Order of the Avenging Dragon. Your action resulted in great disgrace, for the Order and for me. I swore an oath to the Emperor that I would have you captured and returned to China, to suffer the consequences of your deed. Instead, you have eluded me time and again, defeating those I have sent against you. This time I have come myself, and you shall not escape."

Now, I make no claim to understand human nature. It's all I can do to figure out my own motives, and I'm not even sure I've got them right half the time. But I'd be damned if I didn't think this dude really was acting from a sense of honor, not from sheer cussedness. Trouble was, his idea of honor was not informed by any sense of compassion or mercy, justice or truth. It was the honor of the sincere and faithful Nazi, diligently following his society's orders.

"The Royal Nephew was responsible for the killing of my Master Po," Caine said quietly.

"Bah! Naught but a worthless priest!"

Caine's eyes narrowed at that insult, but he said nothing.

"If you had any honor, you would return to China and surrender yourself to the Emperor, in proper repentance for what you have done."

"I am here," Caine pointed out.

"Are you here to become my prisoner?"

Caine shook his head.

"What then?" demanded the Grand Dragon.

"I am here to face you. If you can take me prisoner, you may. Meanwhile, ..." he waved in my direction "... you may release the one you hold. I have come, as required. You have no further need of him."

"I merely said he would die if you did not come. I did not say what would become of him if you did."

"You play a game unworthy of you," was Caine's scornful retort, "and yet you say ... I ... have no honor?"

"I could demand that you surrender yourself to me, in return for freeing your friend."

This was too much for me.

"No," I said with as much conviction as I could muster. "Caine, don't!"

The Grand Dragon looked in my direction and gave a slight nod. One of his men came over and backhanded me across the face.

"You will be silent," the Grand Dragon said, as I licked blood off my split lip and glared at him. Fortunately, the blow hadn't knocked my glasses off or the rest of what happened would have been nothing but a blur to me.

"You and I will face each other alone, priest," the Grand Dragon decided. "No one will interfere. I have commanded it. If you win, you are free. If you lose, and yet live, you will return with me to China."

No mention of what happens to me. I guess I really didn't count in that equation.

Caine bowed his agreement to the other man's proposal.

The Grand Dragon removed his voluminous robe. He wore an outfit much like Caine's but in black and with a winged dragon on the back. They squared off opposite each other in the clear space in front of the tents. Both men bowed solemnly and the contest began. I could do nothing but watch with bated breath.

This was clearly a battle between masters. There was no chance of the bloodless easy victory I'm so used to seeing when "my" Caine confronts other far less skillful adversaries. Most of the blows and kicks never reached their target, being deftly blocked or avoided, but the few that landed were punishing in the extreme. Indeed, to a lesser opponent, they might well have been fatal. As it was, before very long Caine had blood running down his face from a cut on his scalp, while the Dragon's cheek was lacerated and bleeding. And that was just what I could see. They were doubtless both bruised badly from several vicious body blows.

Finally, the Grand Dragon stepped back, as if to call a halt to the proceedings. Caine stopped also, holding his defensive posture but tilting his head questioningly.

"Let us continue," the black-clad figure suggested, "with weapons."

Caine nodded his assent to this suggestion. They walked over to a long rack of exotic weapons that stood just outside the entrance to the largest tent.

The Grand Dragon took a shiny metal staff from the rack. It was the same thing I had seen him using for practice so I knew his deadly expertise.

With its butt resting on the ground, the staff was a little taller than a man. The blade was flat and curved slightly, about the width of a hand and perhaps two feet long. Even my untrained mind could come up with several ways to use such an item to slice an opponent to pieces.

Sunlight glinted on the blade as the Dragon motioned for Caine to also choose a weapon. Somewhat to my surprise, Caine picked out the same thing, weighing it carefully in his hands and taking a few experimental swings.

Perhaps it was disloyal of me to fear for Caine's life, but I had seen the Grand Dragon take on six opponents at once and come out victorious using that particular weapon, so I figured it might take more expertise than even a Shaolin priest would have to use it to the same effect.

The brief respite over, Caine and the Grand Dragon squared off once again, treating me to a spectacular exhibition of jabs, swings, spins, and near misses as they fought back and forth across the open space. Much of the action seemed like the sort of staff fighting I had seen in martial arts demonstrations, with the addition of that lethal blade to make things just that much more interesting. Since some parts of the battle took place uncomfortably close to me, I watched the glittering metal with more than a little fear for my own safety added to my concern for Caine.

At first, Caine seemed a bit unsure of himself, staying mostly on the defensive and parrying a couple of thrusts with so little margin for error that my heart caught in my chest. However, once he got the feel of the weapon, he matched the Grand Dragon blow for blow, but neither seemed able to mount a lethal attack, although both had been sliced in a couple of places.

Finally, they stood facing each other, crouched defensively and gasping for breath.

"We are too well matched, Shaolin," the Grand Dragon said at last.

Caine nodded his head respectfully, not taking his eyes off his opponent.

Casting his staff to the ground, the Grand Dragon announced, "We will fight on another plane, where the skills of the body are not so important as those of the mind."

Caine nodded once more and also dropped his weapon.

Now what? I wondered. Would there be fancy displays of pyrotechnics as they each cast bolts of energy, as is done in the rather unimaginative fantasy novels that are so popular?

No, apparently not. All they did was continue to face each other, the Grand Dragon on his feet while Caine sank fluidly down into a full lotus, hands resting on his knees. Both men had their eyes closed. Absolutely nothing seemed to be happening, and yet I knew the conflict had to be going on somewhere.

I closed my eyes also, trying to allow my mind to center and drift into the sort of emptiness I had (rarely!) been able to reach in my own feeble attempts at meditation.

Suddenly, something shifted. That's the only way I can describe it. The quality of the light beyond my eyelids changed. I blinked -- and found myself looking out on a strange and alien landscape. From high up on a mountainside, I faced a vista of sharp-edged peaks and valleys. Everything was clear and crisp, black on white, stylized like a Chinese painting. The mountains, rocks, trees, all consisted only of lines like brushstrokes, varied in width and texture according to the design of the artist.

It wasn't real, and yet it hinted at a reality beyond the reach of any merely photographic image of the world. It was as if the inner spirit of the landscape were being depicted, rather than merely its outward seeming.

Turning my gaze from this surreal yet breath-taking view, I noted that I was standing on a rather narrow path along the side of one of those precipitous brushstroke mountains. A single gnarled and twisted pine grew from a crevice a short way up the cliff face that rose to my left, while nothing but an abrupt drop-off bordered the path on the other side.

I barely had time to wonder what I was doing here, not to mention worry about exactly where "here" was, when I caught sight of Caine and the Grand Dragon just ahead of me on the path.

In comparison to the rest of the sketchy surroundings, they were both solidly substantial, much to my relief. They stood facing each other. Although they had assumed defensive postures, neither seemed in a hurry to attack.

Staying as near to the cliff face as I could, I moved closer, until I wasn't very far behind Caine. Neither man acknowledged my presence in any way, so I wasn't sure if they could see me at all.

With a triumphant laugh, the Grand Dragon clutched his gold medallion in one fist while his other arm described a sweeping arc through the air. In a bright flash of light, a huge golden dragon materialized above his head. It was at least four times the size of a man and looked pretty much like the avenging dragon on the pennant. Claws like razors glistened on each foot, reaching toward Caine, while immense scaly wings buffeted him backwards, in the direction of the edge of the cliff.

Somehow I knew that, unreal though this world might appear, anyone who went over that edge and tumbled into the abyss below would be dead in the real world also. If I knew that, it was a pretty sure bet that Caine knew it too, especially judging by the attempt he was making to counter the dragon's attack while not retreating any further.

All of a sudden he held still. From where I stood cringing against the not-nearly solid enough mountainside, I could see him in profile. He seemed to be just looking at the fierce golden beast, yet it faltered in its attack.

"You are not ... real," he declared firmly, waving one hand in a gesture much like the one I've seen "my" Caine use to extinguish a candle from all the way across a room. 

And, just like the flame of the above-mentioned candle, the menacing dragon blinked out of existence.

The Grand Dragon frowned briefly, then gestured again.

A lovely young Chinese girl in a long dark brown cape stood at the very edge of the cliff. Her glistening black hair was pulled severely back from her face, then fell half way down to her waist over the sumptuous red satin lining the hood of her cloak. Large dark eyes framed by delicate features gazed at Caine in terrified appeal. She seemed frozen by fear in her precarious position next to the abyss.

Caine exclaimed softly, "Po Li!"

She raised her arms, reaching out towards him. As she did so, her cape fell back to reveal red-orange pants and tunic, stretched over a very-pregnant belly.

"Help me, Kwai Chang," she begged frantically. "I carry your son. Save us!"

I had no time to even wonder who Po Li might be before I found myself caught up in what could only be one of Caine's memories, since I seemed to be watching the scene from his point of view.

It was many years ago, in China, and they were in a forest beside a slow-moving river. Po Li, dressed exactly as I had just seen her but not pregnant, knelt before him. Caine uncrossed his legs from the half-lotus he had been in as he said, "You may die."

Po Li replied, "This much I know: I will not die easily."

She rose gracefully to her feet, then sat next to Caine on the huge fallen tree trunk. Spreading her cloak, she wrapped one arm around behind him and went on, "And I will have much to remember."

Her other arm reached out to encircle him, as her long fingernails touched his head and drew him closer. As she lay back on the ground, pulling him down on top of her, her eyes sparkled like the sunlight on the river behind them.

I didn't just see all this. Rather, I felt it, as Caine must have. And that got very embarrassing very quickly! Po Li was a beautiful young woman, who looked and felt every bit as delectable with her clothes off as she had with them on. Although I'm basically gay, sex with a woman isn't totally outside my experience. (After all, I was married once.) But Po Li, especially through the filter of Caine's perception, was a whole lot more exciting than my wife had ever been. Even so, I was able to separate myself from the overwhelming sensual memory, perhaps simply because women, however lovely, are not the chief focus of my desires.

Nevertheless, it was a very interesting experience, which was abruptly shattered by Po Li's pleading voice bringing us back to our present surreal version of reality.

"Help me!" she begged pitifully, as she teetered over the edge. "I love you, Kwai Chang. Help me."

Still entangled in his memories, Caine moved toward the pregnant woman. As I watched in horror, she lost her balance and began to fall backwards. Caine dove forward and was able to grab her hands just as she slid over the edge. But with nothing to hold onto, her weight pulled him slowly but inexorably after her.

I ran over and grabbed his legs, but I wasn't quite as "solid" in this strange plane as he was. My hands passed through him with a feeling like I was trying to clutch heavy layers of rotten gauze.

Barely a yard away, the Grand Dragon stood watching all this, an abstract smile fixed on his lips and a glazed look in his eyes. I don't think he saw me at all.

This was all wrong somehow. I knew that, but didn't know exactly why.

"Caine!" I warned, shouting in the hopes that he might hear me, even if I wasn't solidly present. "This isn't what it seems! Look at it! Figure it out!"

I don't know if my warning got through, but at that same moment, he glanced around at the Grand Dragon.

"This ... cannot be," he said. His face was contorted with the effort to hold the woman's weight and his voice came only with great strain. "It was ... many years ago. Even if Po Li became pregnant ... she would have ... borne the child by now."

The Grand Dragon still showed no indication of seeing me, but he now appeared distinctly annoyed.

"Are you so sure of this, priest?" he asked.

"Yes," came Caine's now-confident reply as he released Po Li's hands. Instead of falling, she evaporated into mist and sunlight, like the illusion she had been.

Caine rose to his feet, still close to the cliff but on solid ground.

"Very good," the Grand Dragon said mockingly. "Few men can see through the illusion of their external fears, and fewer still through the illusion of their desires. But what of your inner fears, priest? What do they look like? And how real are they to you?"

So saying, he stepped back. Where he had been, there now stood an old monk in orange robes, whose clouded eyes gazed sightlessly from his kindly face.

Caine reacted to the monk's presence with an expression of delight totally out of keeping with his usual stoicism. "Master Po," he said, his voice rapt with wonder.

"Grasshopper," the old man replied with a frown, "why are you here? Why have you fled your country, rather than paying for your rash actions? You have brought disgrace and dishonor upon yourself, and upon the Shaolin."

Stricken, Caine went to his knees before his Master.

"I did not mean ..."

"What you meant is not important," the other man continued implacably. "What you have done speaks louder than your words. You acted in anger, without regard for all I have taught you about the value of life. You have made a powerful enemy of the Emperor, an enemy who will one day destroy our Temple and murder the Masters."

"No," Caine objected wretchedly. "Not ... because of me. It ... must not be."

"It will be, and worse, if you do not atone for what has been done," Master Po insisted. "You are without honor. Your life is worth nothing. You deserve only death."

Caine bowed lower, until his forehead touched the ground.

Could it actually be that he believed what the old monk was telling him? Did he see himself in truth as the person depicted on the Wanted poster, the murderer with the hard face and vicious coldness in his eyes? Was that the true specter that haunted this gentle soul? Not the horror of being hounded forever for his supposed crime, but the idea that he deserved no better of life, if indeed he deserved to live at all?

"What must I do to atone for my actions, Master?" I heard him ask, still face down at the feet of the old monk.

"You must die, Grasshopper," Master Po answered him, pointing toward the abyss with one wide-sleeved arm.

Caine rose to his feet and nodded once. Almost as if he were in a trance, he started walking toward the edge of the cliff.

As an outsider, I could clearly see the deception in this illusion, but Caine couldn't, perhaps because it was playing on guilt that was so deeply buried in his psyche that he wasn't even aware of it on a rational level.

I ran in front of him, trying to block his way, but he walked right through me.

"No!" I screamed. "No! It's not the truth! This is not what you are!"

That did no good. If he heard me at all, he ignored it, attending only to the words of his beloved Master echoing the hidden terrors of his heart. 

With nothing else to do, I ran at the elderly monk, my hands up as if I could push him out of existence by sheer force. "Stop it, stop it!" I cried. "You are not Master Po! He would not do this! Damn you, stop!"

I expected to careen right through the figure of the old man, but I didn't. I hit him with a solid thump and we both fell to the ground. Far be it from me to beat up on an old, blind monk, but this guy was strong as an ox and seemed to be doing his level best to strangle me, so I fought back as well as I could. It occurred to me that this was stupid. No way could I even be holding my own against a real Shaolin priest, blind or otherwise.

"You ... are ... not ... real," I choked out. His death grip on my neck weakened.

The old man literally exploded in smoke and flames.

Caine glanced around at the noise. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of me, or perhaps not, but he couldn't have missed the sight of his supposed Master going up in smoke. Either way, he no longer seemed particularly anxious to walk off the cliff, so I was satisfied.

Unfortunately, I was also utterly exhausted. My struggle with the image of Master Po had drained me completely. I lay on the ground, with barely enough energy to breathe, much less get up. All I could do was watch as Caine walked over to face the Grand Dragon.

I don't know what I expected him to do, but it certainly wasn't what he did. With a gesture that took in the surrounding mountains, he said softly, "As this landscape is an ... abstraction of reality, ... so also is this battle between us abstract. It is a conflict of ideas, not fists. You have done nothing but summon illusions. I will summon truth."

Suddenly, another elderly monk appeared. This one wore black and his eyes were brilliantly clear in a sharp-featured face. He stood squarely facing the Grand Dragon, a small smile on his lips. And I knew from what "my" Caine had once told me that this had to be the famous Master Kan, head of the Shaolin Temple where this Caine had spent his youth. Here stood no illusion, but rather the embodiment of an actual memory.

I watched the two old Masters face each other, so much alike in so many ways, and yet so very different. One ruler of a militant Order, one a monk. One arrogant and strong in his pride, the other humble despite his many accomplishments.

I almost expected to see Master Kan attack the Grand Dragon, and yet he didn't. He merely spoke, in a calm and educated voice as if lecturing to his students.

"Each man must start with himself, within himself, by slowly forging his chi, the bond between the finite and the infinite, the inner essence of his spirit and the limitless power of the universe. Only thus can you conquer the power and the presence of evil."

"The murdering priest is evil, not me," the Grand Dragon retorted. "Away with you."

He gestured grandly, but Master Kan remained where he was. The Grand Dragon stepped forward, throwing a powerful punch at the other man. His fist went through Master Kan with no effect.

"You have dealt with illusion for so many years that you can no longer touch the truth," the monk said. "Your power is illusion. Your honor is illusion. Look inside your heart and you will see the truth of what you are."

"I know all the truth I need to know. It is not for you to judge me," the Grand Dragon declared.

Master Kan shook his head, saying gently, "I do not judge you. No one may approve or condemn another man save only that man himself. What lies within your heart? Is it compassion, or cruelty? Have you sought harmony with all things, or merely your own power and prestige? What are your motives? What your passions and desires? Only you yourself may truly see, and truly judge."

There was pity in Master Kan's eyes as he raised one hand and placed his palm against the other man's chest.

The Grand Dragon winced, as if the Shaolin Master's shadowy touch were causing him genuine pain. He drew in a breath and his eyes went wide. Then his face twisted into the most dreadful grimace of horror and dismay that I have ever had the misfortune to behold. Despite my usually insatiable curiosity, I found I had absolutely no desire to find out what the Grand Dragon saw when he looked at his own soul.

"No!" he gasped brokenly. "No! It cannot be!"

"It is," Master Kan replied sadly.

With a wordless scream, the Grand Dragon pulled back from Master Kan. He turned towards the cliff.

"No," Master Kan began as he reached out to the other man, "it is not necessary --"

He wasn't fast enough. With a final agonized shriek, the Grand Dragon threw himself over the edge.

In the sudden silence following that dreadful scream, I could do nothing but stare at Caine and his Master. The old monk glanced briefly in my direction and nodded, as if he at least could see me. Then he smiled at Caine, bowed gracefully, and disappeared.

Caine bowed gravely back, then everything else disappeared also and we were in the real world once again.

I saw the Grand Dragon totter and then fall full length to the ground. Before any of the others had even begun to figure out what had happened, Caine rose to his feet. Picking up the metal staff that still lay beside him, he ran over to me. With one clean swipe of the blade, he cut the rope that held my wrists without so much as nicking my skin. I crumpled to the ground, unable to move due to the pain in my legs and the numbness in my arms and hands. Caine threw me over his shoulder as if I were a sack of rice and sprinted for the river. The cold water hit me with a shock, clearing away the last lingering vestiges of the surreal world we'd been in.

Now, this river wasn't much to speak of, almost more of an overgrown stream. Still, just below the small waterfall, it slowed down and spread out a ways, becoming deep enough that a man had to swim to get across. There wasn't much of a current, which was just as well, since I was only partly functional. Between Caine towing me and my own feeble efforts to swim, we made it to the far bank well ahead of any pursuers.

As the water grew shallow, Caine dragged me to my feet, which were at last beginning to obey my brain's frantic commands to move. The sharp crack of gunshots from the other side of the water spurred me on to greater efforts as we struggled ashore and tried to climb the slick mud along the bank. We had almost made it into the woods when a sledge hammer hit me in the back of the head and I pitched forward into the prickly embrace of a small bush.

Once more, Caine pulled me to my feet. Grabbing me around my waist and draping one limp arm over his shoulder, he dragged me a short way along the riverbank. I was no more than half conscious, unable to help him very much and feeling sick and dizzy. A fire burned along the back of my skull and I figured I'd been hit by a bullet. How bad the wound might be, I had no idea. I wanted nothing more than to lie down and quietly pass out, but I couldn't very well do that.

We weren't making much progress through the woods, due to my limp condition. At this rate, the Dragon Boys would have no trouble catching up with us, once they got across the river. I tried to tell Caine to leave me here and run, since it was him they mostly wanted. Unfortunately, my tongue was no more willing to obey my brain than my legs had been, so no words came out. The dizziness increased and I felt my stomach contract sickeningly. I doubled over, retching.

Caine eased me down to the ground. My sight was fading to black and I couldn't see him, but I felt his fingers exploring the back of my head and his voice came to me through the gathering darkness. 

"Jeremy, can you hear me?"

I tried to answer, wanting to tell him to leave me and get the hell away, but my tongue still wouldn't move and the world seemed to be spinning around even faster than before. 

Run! I thought, hoping he'd pick up on the words I was unable to say aloud. Save yourself! I'm probably dead already. Go! Caine, in the name of heaven, go!

Instead of getting worse, the dizziness began to fade. I heard a voice still calling my name, but it wasn't Caine's. In fact, it wasn't even a man's voice. Now what was going on?

Cautiously, I opened my eyes. My head still hurt like hell and I was lying on the ground, but instead of Caine leaning over me, I saw Cora Stefanchik, with Jodie next to her.

I blinked a few times.

"Thank the Goddess, he's conscious," Cora said, relief clear in her voice.

I sat up carefully and looked around, bemused. No Caine. No Dragon Boys. Just my friends from the Circle 5.

"Back of his head's bleeding," Jodie noted calmly. "I'll get the first aid kit."

She went over to where her horse stood by the side of the trail and started pulling things out of the saddlebag.

"What happened?" Cora asked, one arm supporting my shoulders. "You were trying to say something. I thought I heard you mention Caine."

"I was trying to tell him to run away --" I began.

"Jeremy, he's not even here."

"I know. I wasn't here either. I was --" 

By now Jodie was kneeling by my side, pressing a wad of gauze pads against the cut on the back of my head. I started over. "I mean, I was here, I just wasn't --"

No, that wouldn't work either.

"I guess I fell off my horse and hit my head, didn't I?"

Cora nodded, looking much relieved that I was no longer talking nonsense. "When your horse came in without you, we backtracked, figuring to find you on foot somewhere. Feeling better now?"

"Yeah. I guess." I was getting used to the idea that I was back in present time. But what had happened in the past? Had I simply disappeared? If so, Caine wouldn't have wasted any more time getting away from the Dragon Boys, I was sure of that. Fine with me. Just as long as he survived, I didn't care how it came about.

"I was talking to Caine?" I asked, hoping to validate his continued existence in this time frame.

"Yeah," Jodie put in. "But he's in Europe, searching for his wife, according to what you told us."

Good. Then nothing had changed.

Cora helped me to my feet. "Come on, let's get you back to the ranch. You must have been imagining things while you were unconscious," she added, coming to the only logical conclusion.

Well, perhaps she was right, but it sure didn't feel that way to me. Still doesn't. Now that I've told you about it, what do you think?


	10. The Greatest Treasure of All

THE GREATEST TREASURE OF ALL

Bolts of something like static electricity flared inside a small chamber. They seemed to surround and emanate from a strangely-shaped chalice on a simple altar. The chalice glowed an eerie green as the lightning flashed and hissed. A sharp sense of dread and menace filled my mind.

I tore my eyes from the source of that awful power and saw Kwai Chang Caine sprawled lifelessly on the stone floor. My breath caught in my throat. I would have screamed, but could not.

It was a nightmare, and in some odd way, I knew that, even as I watched in horror. But I couldn't force myself to wake up.

The awesome scene faded out, to be replaced by something else: a crowded bar, where some people had numbers on their foreheads and everyone walked around like freaked-out lost souls. It could have been something out of a punk rocker's fantasy. 

Over the din, I heard Caine's voice, sounding uncharacteristically angry and resentful. 

"All those years, ... where were you when I ... did need you? Travelling around the world, ... looking for treasure. Things! Just things!"

I searched the crowd, desperately wanting to find him, but it was difficult. Everything was distorted, as if it were being alternately stretched vertically and then horizontally. The entire scene jumped and flickered erratically, coming into clear focus only now and again. I missed bits and pieces of the action and dialog during the flickers.

When I located Caine, he was sitting at a table, talking to someone. Someone who looked so much like him that I would have done a double-take, had I truly been there, instead of being just a disembodied observer. Someone who could have been Caine, aged another thirty years or so. He wore brown-rimmed glasses and had a bit less hair than the Caine I knew. His left hand rested on a cane.

I was still wondering who the hell he was when I caught a fragment of what he was saying.

"I was forced to wander the earth ... to seek ... the greatest treasure of all: inner peace."

"And did you hit the jackpot, Daddy?" Caine asked, with cruel sarcasm.

"I did," the older man replied mildly.

Daddy? Caine had called him Daddy? Then this had to be Matthew Caine, the long-lost father that I knew lived somewhere in France. But I had never met Matthew Caine, so how could I be seeing him in my dreams?

"I knew you never really looked for me. You abandoned me!" Caine accused his father with a viciousness I had never heard him use in real life.

"No."

"You abandoned me," he persisted. "You never loved me."

Oh, look who's talking about abandoning people, I thought. Kwai Chang Caine, master of the great escape, who left his whole life behind to go to Europe, who left his son -- 

And you, Jeremy. Don't forget the way he left you -- and not for the first time either.

Wait a minute, where did that last thought come from? But I had no time to worry about that now. The nightmare went on.

"That is not the truth. You know that." But Matthew sounded a little uncertain now. He took off his glasses, putting one end briefly in his mouth, not a gesture one is likely to use if he feels secure about what he's saying. "I have always loved you."

"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Caine yelled, drawing back a clenched fist to punch the other man.

The sheer shock of seeing him do that was finally enough to wake me up. I lay still, frozen with the fear that carried over from the dream. It seemed I couldn't move, but I knew if I did, the spell would be broken and the world would make sense once more. I don't know how long I lay there motionless, futilely willing myself to get up, but it was long enough to wonder if I had finally gone off the deep end and fallen into insanity.

It wouldn't have surprised me much. I'd fought off bouts of depression during most of my adult life, some bad enough that they had ended in suicide attempts, so one more episode of craziness wouldn't be entirely unexpected. (And, of course, there are people in our society who would automatically label me less than sane simply because I'm gay. But I don't pay much attention to them anymore.)

I forced myself to sit up in an effort to get back to reality, if I could. At first I thought I hadn't made it. Instead of being in my own bed, I was on the platform in Caine's apartment. Well, strictly speaking, it was Peter's place now, but it would always be Caine's in my mind, despite the jarring presence of Peter's large-screen TV and his computer, not to mention the oil paintings he had hung on some of the walls.

What was I doing here? Oh yeah, that's right. Peter was down with the flu, staying at the Blaisdell's house so Annie could look after him. I had promised to stop by here on the way home from my shift at the hospital to check things out, water the plants, that kind of thing. I'd been working a lot of overtime and was pretty tired, so I had stretched out on the mat by the window for a quick rest before I headed home. Must have fallen asleep.

Still, that dream continued to haunt me. I checked my wristwatch. 5 A.M. Good grief, had I spent the whole night here? Lucky I didn't have to work today, or I'd be running late already. We start early in MRI.

I thought about going home, then decided in favor of rustling up a cup of tea instead and getting cleaned up in the bathroom. I wanted to go talk to the Ancient. Maybe he could make sense of that nightmare, if that's what it had been. 

Several months after Caine had left Sloan City, Lo Si had taken his place as my T'ai Chi Ch'uan teacher and informal spiritual adviser. He'd also been treating my tendency to depression with some of his infamous herbal concoctions. I'd grown fairly close to the old priest in the past half year or so. And the closer I got, the more my respect for him grew. That doesn't happen with everyone, you know.

The Ancient listened intently to my description of the dream, nodding sagely when I finished my recitation.

"You are not crazy, Jeremy," he said, answering the question I had not even asked. "But you must go to France."

"Huh?" If I wasn't crazy, then perhaps he was. "France? Me? What on earth for?"

"To warn Matthew Caine. Something threatens the Sacred Chalice of I Ching."

"I thought the I Ching was a book," I objected. "In fact, I just finished reading it and I can't recall any mention of a chalice, sacred or otherwise."

"You are correct. The book does not mention such a thing. But it is said that Jesus Christ spent some time in the Far East. While in China, he visited a Shaolin Temple, where a Chalice of great power was given to him. This is the one that is meant."

Sounded pretty fishy to me. Jesus never traveled to what is now called the Far East. He was a poor carpenter who spent his whole life in what is now Israel, as far as I knew. And, as I believe I just said, the I Ching is a book, used by some people for divination. Nevertheless, this Chalice must be pretty awesome, judging by what I had seen in my nightmare, not to mention the Ancient's reaction to it.

"For many years, it has been hidden from the world," Lo Si went on, "but Matthew Caine discovered its location. He now lives in the village of St. Adele, near where the Chalice is kept. You must go there and warn him."

Oh sure. Right.

"Couldn't I just send a telegram or something?"

"That will not do," the Ancient insisted, clearly prepared to be adamant on the subject. "The dream summons you. You are involved in what will happen."

It was just beginning to dawn on me that the old priest was dead serious about all this.

"You mean my nightmare was true? Caine lying dead on the floor? It really happened?"

I got this awful sensation in my stomach, as if the bottom had just dropped out of my life.

"I do not think it has happened yet," Lo Si replied cautiously. "Kwai Chang Caine told me about the Chalice, but I do not feel that he is dead. However, the argument between father and son may have taken place already. The bar you described is much like the Bardo world where Peter and I went to look for him, at a time when he had been poisoned and was near death. However, Kwai Chang Caine did not tell me about meeting his father in that place." 

"Given the nasty things he said in my dream, it's not surprising that he didn't particularly want to talk about it," I suggested.

Lo Si inclined his head in a slight nod. "Perhaps not."

"You really want me to get involved in all this? I mean, I've seen those old Indiana Jones movies. I've got no very great desire to mess around with sacred relics."

"You will go to France."

Damn. The Ancient can be twice as stubborn and three times as persuasive as Caine himself, when he wants to be. Before I hardly knew what was happening, I found myself on a plane to Europe. Fortunately, I had time off coming to me at work, so that wasn't a problem. Money was tight, but Lo Si arranged payment for my fare. How could I refuse?

 

It was late in the afternoon when I left my rented car parked out by the road and walked over to the church of St. Adele through an old graveyard. 

Being in Europe may sound romantic to you, but it made me a bit nervous. You see, I'm German on both sides of my family, although all my ancestors came over well before World War I. Nevertheless, at the time when I was coming of age, the true extent of Nazi brutality was just becoming common knowledge, and the Holocaust (of course, we didn't call it that back then; that term appeared later) was being revealed to a horrified world by means of books and gruesome documentaries. When I thought about my family heritage, all I saw was barbed wire and piles of emaciated bodies being bulldozed into open pits; railroad cars carrying human cargo and crematory chimneys belching black smoke; that sort of thing. Not the kind of images that were calculated to make a person feel at home in Europe. Or at least, not this person. I'm too sensitive to the ghosts of the past, and walking through a graveyard wasn't helping matters any.

As I got closer to the church, I could hear an organ playing. Not one of those huge old pipe organs that you'd expect in a fancy cathedral, but something more modest, like an electric organ. It wasn't religious music per se, but it sounded medieval and majestic. A classical composition, perhaps?

With a certain amount of trepidation, I opened one of the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside. It turned out to be a fairly ordinary Catholic church, with the usual arrangement of pews, main altar, statues at several smaller side altars, and so forth. I located the organ along the left-hand wall, a ways back from the sanctuary.

The organ player went on with his recital, unmindful of my presence. Doubtless he was used to having an audience, as people came in to pray now and then.

Doing my best tourist imitation, I strolled casually down a side aisle, gazing at the statues as I passed and glancing around the body of the church. Late afternoon sunlight came through the stained glass windows, throwing bright swatches of color across the rather dim interior.

I worked my way around until I could see the face of the organ player almost in profile. Even at a distance, I recognized him from my nightmare vision, and from his uncanny resemblance to his son. This was the man I'd come here to talk to. 

I continued walking until I found a secluded spot in a pew near one of the pillars. I could watch Matthew Caine from there without being too obvious, since I was half hidden behind the column. Relaxing, I let myself be drawn into the sweeping strains of the music. Time enough to introduce myself after he had finished playing. I had no idea what kind of a welcome I'd get anyway. My reason for being here sounded pretty damn strange, even to me. What if Matthew just laughed and told me to go home?

I glanced idly around, reflecting on how long it had been since I'd been inside a church of any kind, for any reason. (Other than for funerals, of which there had been far too many since the AIDS epidemic began.) Traditional Christianity had always been too homophobic for me, although I knew there were a number of gay and gay-supportive denominations in existence. I had taken several courses in Comparative Religion way back in my college years, so at least I had a fairly educated idea of what it was that I didn't believe in.

My eye touched on the crucifix at the front of the church, with its image of the suffering Christ. I had never been able to get too excited about the person of Jesus. Still, if his followers felt for him the same sort of profound respect I felt for Caine, I figured I could understand their devotion. I certainly knew what it was like to want to imitate someone I felt embodied the highest standards of goodness, truth, and light. Was that really much different from how a dedicated Christian felt? Maybe. Maybe not. And, of course, there were Christians who would doubtless scream "Sacrilege!" at such a notion, especially coming from someone like me.

I shrugged. That was their problem, not mine.

The music wound up to a final majestic crescendo, then stopped. I shifted my weight, intending to get up and make my presence known. Before I had a chance to do more, Matthew began a new piece. Quieter, gentler, but infinitely sad and mournful. It could only have been meant as a dirge of some kind, since it clearly spoke of endings and regrets. I'm no musician. I couldn't tell you why certain kinds of melodies inspire certain feelings. All I know is that these particular strains made me think of the losses and the failures of my life; the things not done, and the precious opportunities now gone forever; the love mismanaged and the glories which might have been, but weren't. And over it all brooded that crucifix, an image of death more ancient but no more pleasant than the gallows or the electric chair.

With no warning of any kind, another set of notes insinuated itself into Matthew's dirge. It took only a moment for me to realize this wasn't some synthesized bit produced by the electric organ, but an entirely separate instrument. To be exact, a flute. I didn't turn to see the player. I didn't have to. I knew, beyond any doubt, who it had to be.

Matthew continued to play. The new tune encircled his, weaving itself deeper and deeper into the mournful theme. And yet there were occasional disharmonies, notes here and there that jarred against the ear, introducing an almost subliminal conflict into the overall melody.

The eerie duet ended on a drawn-out, throbbing note on the organ accompanied by a sad twitter from the flute.

Matthew sat in silence at the keyboard for an interminable time, his head bowed slightly forward. Caine was the one who spoke first.

"Father?" said that voice I knew so well.

Matthew turned from the keyboard, a tentative smile on his face. "Yes, my son?" he replied.

They looked at each other, Caine still holding his silver flute. Just the sight of him wrenched my heart painfully. He was dressed in much the same manner as he had been when he'd left Sloan City last winter, except that his head was no longer shaved. His hair had grown in, but it was still quite a bit shorter than it had been even back when I'd first met him some five or six years ago, just before he'd been reunited with Peter.

From where I sat, I could see the two men only from an oblique angle. Still, from their postures and general bearing, I thought I noticed an awkwardness between father and son, almost as if they wanted to hug each other, but could not.

My eavesdropping like this served no useful purpose and might well prove embarrassing if I didn't end it soon. Rising to my feet, I made a point of stumbling noisily over a kneeler as I crossed the row of pews in their direction.

Two heads turned instantly, and two pairs of very similar hazel eyes (even though Matthew's were behind glasses) tracked my progress.

"Jeremy?" Caine said. But it was not a question. In fact, he didn't even seem terribly surprised at my presence.

The older man glanced sharply from Caine to me. Up close, he looked to be in his eighties, but I got the feeling he could be a lot older. It may have been a trick of the light, but I could see what might have been a faint scar on his left cheek.

"You know each other?" Again, there was really no question mark, despite Matthew's intonation. I noted with some amusement that he had much the same speech patterns as his son.

"Yes, we ... know each other," Caine replied. Then, to me, "What are you doing here?"

"You're not gonna believe me."

"The ... Chalice?" Matthew suggested, looking intently over the tops of his glasses at me.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

He shrugged. "I have ... seen your face, but did not know your name."

He looked quickly at his son, who gave a brief nod.

Maybe I wasn't the only one who had been having weird dreams?

With a quick look around the church, Matthew concluded, "This is not the place for us to discuss such things. Let us go to the rectory, where there will be more privacy."

 

Matthew led us to a small cottage next to the church, stopping by my car to pick up my suitcase as we went.

Caine and I took seats around the kitchen table and Matthew placed a battered teapot on the stove and turned on the gas beneath it. Caine glanced around briefly, then asked, "Where is ... Father Vashon?"

Matthew sat down in another of the straight-backed wooden chairs on which I was fidgeting uncomfortably.

"His sister was assaulted and robbed several days ago. She lives near Cannes, and he has gone to be with her until she recovers. I have been living here at the rectory and keeping an eye on ... the church. You are both welcome to stay here also. There is ... plenty of room."

While there was little uncertainty in Matthew's voice, he was looking at Caine and I knew the question was directed primarily to him, not me. I kept silent, letting Caine decide. There was clearly something going on between the two men, and I knew better than to intrude on such dangerous territory at this point.

The hesitation was too long by only a fraction of a second, but it was there. Then Caine nodded gravely.

Matthew smiled at the hoped-for answer and rose to his feet once again. "If you will pardon me for a moment, I will prepare the tea."

While the old man busied himself scooping tea into a ceramic pot, pouring the boiling water into it, setting out cups and so forth, I noticed Caine fiddling with the round jade pendant he wears. Now, Caine never fidgets, so I figured he had to be extremely uptight about something. Since the silence was getting on my nerves, I started talking, telling Caine how my part-time job at County General had just become full-time, which meant I was financially stable at last.

I put an optimistic slant on things, not mentioning my constant unhappiness that he wasn't around anymore. He had to know I wanted him back, so why say it?

Matthew was setting the tea tray on the table in front of us when I finally got around to asking the question I had wanted to ask all along.

"So did you find Laura?"

"Not ... yet," Caine replied with a sad smile. "As my son would say, I ... tracked down several leads." He shrugged. "None of them led me anywhere. I shall ... return to Paris and continue the search."

Matthew offered me a cup of tea. As I took it, he asked his son, "What are you doing here?"

"I ... sensed a threat to the Chalice." 

The old man nodded, then turned to me. "And you, Mr. Langsten?"

"Please, just Jeremy is fine." I took a careful sip of the tea. It was hot, but had a pleasant somewhat "woody" flavor. "It was the Ancient's idea for me to come here."

In response to their quizzical looks, I described my dream, but only the part dealing with the Chalice. I didn't see that the Bardo bit had anything to do with the present situation and I wasn't real sure how they'd feel about my having been a party to that argument, if it had truly happened. I was still unsure if what I'd seen had actually taken place in something more than Caine's fevered imagination.

The two men listened carefully to my account, nodding every so often. No sooner had I finished speaking than that uncomfortable silence enveloped us once again.

"Jeremy," Matthew said at last, "it would seem you are to be ... involved ... in whatever is to happen with the Chalice. It is ... good that you have come."

That made me feel simultaneously better and worse. It was nice to know my presence was appreciated, but I still didn't want anything to do with this mysterious Chalice.

The older Caine rose to his feet, taking up his cane. "I will ... get some linens for the spare room, if you will excuse me for a moment." He turned an apologetic smile on his son. "I am afraid ... you will have to sleep on the couch."

"I ... do not mind," Caine replied.

As his father left the room, I almost got up to help him, but then Caine glanced at me and took another sip of his tea. There was something on his mind.

"How ... is Peter getting along?"

"Well ... uh ... okay, I suppose."

He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice because he raised one eyebrow in a silent invitation to go on.

"The people of the community are sort of getting used to his presence, but he really doesn't have enough experience to take your place, and I think he's coming to realize that. Oh sure, he's a terrific martial artist, but there's more to it than that. He's only just become a Shaolin priest. He's hardly a Master, although he may well make the grade, someday. And he isn't quite -- " I didn't know exactly how to phrase this, but I did the best I could -- “Chinese enough. I don't mean he doesn't look Chinese, because you don't either. It's more like he doesn't think Chinese, or act Chinese. Not really. He's too much an American." I grinned. "And too much a cop, even now."

Caine nodded, evidently not overly surprised or displeased by my assessment of the situation. "Peter ... has much to learn ... before he discovers his true path."

With a sharp twinge of annoyance, I recalled that Caine had told me I should learn to find my own path also, and then he'd left town.

Before we could say anymore, Matthew came back into the kitchen and sat down. Caine took up the teapot and filled all our cups.

Matthew waved a hand at his son as if to indicate his attire. "I see you still have the things I gave you ... before I left many years ago." With a glance at the corner where Caine had stowed his travel gear, he added, "Even the duffel bag."

"Yes," Caine replied, briefly touching the strap of the pouch slung over his shoulder. "But I gave the ... journals to Peter. It was ... time ... for him to have them." At his father's nod of agreement, Caine held out his right hand and went on. "I ... tried to give him the ring also ... but he felt I should keep it."

"Perhaps ... he was right. Your son may know better than you ... how much of our heritage it is possible for him to assume at this time."

I caught a slight frown pass over Caine's face, but it was quickly gone. He only shrugged in acquiescence to this gentle criticism.

Matthew leaned closer, looking over the tops of his glasses and squinting a little as he studied the younger man. "The earring is not something you got from me."

I recalled that Caine had taken to wearing an earring during the months just before he'd left but this seemed a rather unusual one. Sort of a filigree dragon. 

"It was ... a gift." His tone didn't invite further discussion. If the bit of jewelry had any further significance, we obviously weren't going to be told about it then. Or perhaps ever.

A telephone rang somewhere in another room. I jumped at the sudden noise, but neither of the others did. Rising stiffly to his feet, Matthew shuffled into the adjoining parlor. I couldn't make out the conversation, but he was back in a matter of minutes to fill us in.

"That was ... Father Vashon. His sister is doing well, but is still in the hospital, so he will not return in time for Mass tomorrow. He wishes us to ... go to the church in the morning and tell his parishioners."

The older man sank down into the chair as if he was glad to be off his feet. He moved as if he had arthritis, which wouldn't be unusual in someone his age, especially considering the injuries he had sustained years ago in Tibet.

"My son ... there is food in the refrigerator. Perhaps you could prepare a light supper for us?"

"Of course, father," Caine replied promptly.

We didn't say much over the meal. Truth to tell, I was pretty tired from my transatlantic flight and the food made me sleepy.

No sooner had Caine taken the dishes to the sink and begun washing them than Matthew noticed my drooping eyelids and suggested, "Perhaps ... you are weary and would like to prepare for bed?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't mind that," I acknowledged. "It's been a long day."

"Come. I will show you to your room."

"You don't need to --"

He waved away my objection.

"It is ... my duty as a host."

I followed him down the short hallway and into a small guestroom. I have to say that bed sure looked inviting.

Setting my suitcase on a chair, I searched out my pajamas. Then I realized Matthew still stood in the doorway, a slight frown on his face. I looked over at him, raising an eyebrow by way of invitation.

"There is ... something between you and my son?"

I tried to pass it off lightly as I dug through my clothing.

"Nah. I only worship the ground he walks on. That's all."

For the sake of the question mark in the other man's eyes, I elaborated. "He saved my life, not to mention my sanity, a number of times."

"Ah! And you have sometimes been ... of assistance to him also, have you not?"

"Yeah, you might say that. But nothing like what he's done for me."

"And you wish him to return to Sloan City?"

"You bet I do! I'm not the only one, either. Peter's doing his best, but he's too young and inexperienced to handle the burden that's been thrust upon him. And Mary Margaret's heart-broken, although she tries hard not to let it show."

"Mary ... Margaret?"

Oops! Guess he didn't know about her.

"She's a detective, and a really great person. She loves your son, and I think he was starting to care for her when all this stuff about Laura came up. The uncertainty is hard for her to handle."

"Yes. I can see how such a situation would be ... difficult." 

I had time to set my toiletry case on the small dresser before Matthew went on.

"Do you think ... Mary Margaret ... would be a good match for my son?"

The conversation was getting painful for me now. After all, I've lusted after Caine practically since I first met him, although I've tried real hard not to let that small fact intrude on our friendship. Oh yeah, he knows it. But, unlike most straight men, he can handle that knowledge without it bothering him, just as I know I've got no chance with him, and I can handle that. Hell, I'm not even jealous of Mary Margaret, but I won't say it doesn't hurt sometimes, seeing them together, holding hands and laughing, or just looking into each other's eyes.

But Matthew had asked me a question, and I still owed him an answer.

"Yes, I think Mary Margaret would make an excellent wife for him. Perhaps better than a woman he has assumed dead and hasn't even seen in -- what? -- more than thirty years? Even if Laura is still alive somewhere -- and it sounds pretty iffy to me -- people change. She might not want him back. After all, she had no reason to think he was dead, and yet she never contacted him. Why not?"

Matthew looked away, almost as if he felt guilty about something. "I ... do not know. Yet there may have been a reason. I ... was unable to contact my son for a long time, and then, when I came to seek him ..." he held out his hands in a helpless gesture "... the Temple had been destroyed and I was told Kwai Chang and Peter were both dead."

"Sorry. Guess I hit on a sore spot there, didn't I? But at least you've all found each other again."

"That ... is true. And yet, in a way, we ... have not entirely ... found ... each other. There is something ..."

Matthew stopped abruptly, as if he had already said more than he had intended. He smiled. "But that is ... as I think they say now ... not your problem. I am being selfish, expecting you to talk about my son when you are doubtless exhausted. Please excuse an old man, and an over-fond parent. I will leave you alone now. Sleep well."

He slipped quietly out the door.

For my money, I would have been glad to stay up all night talking about Caine. But Matthew was right. Jet lag had caught up to me hours ago. My head barely hit the pillow before I fell asleep.

Morning came, accompanied by a breakfast of delicious croissants and tea. Then the three of us headed over to the church, to turn away any parishioners who might appear for daily Mass.

I spent the time watching the early sunshine streaming through the stained glass windows and trying to convince my brain it was awake. A morning person I am not!

I thought Caine and his father seemed a little antsy, but put it down to their continuing unease in each other's presence. Turns out that wasn't the problem this time.

We had pretty well finished sending people home and were on our way out when the main doors burst open and what looked like a squad of heavily-armed commandos flooded into the church, all their weapons pointed at us. My shocked and still half-asleep brain woke up real fast, but I couldn't do anything except stare at this incongruous scene. Caine and Matthew didn't do any more than I did, although they didn't appear quite as surprised.

A smallish, female-looking figure detached itself from the others and came over to us, while her cohorts spread out in all directions. Armed with nothing more than one of those swagger sticks you may have seen military men carrying in the movies, she peeled the black hood off her head and shook out her curly blond hair. Yep, definitely a woman.

"Guten Morgen, meine Herren," she greeted us in German, smiling. "Or would you prefer English?"

"English," Caine replied, unruffled.

"Very well. I would advise you not to try any of your famous Shaolin tricks, priest." She waved a hand at the forest of gun barrels aimed in our direction. "As you can see, I've done my homework. I know what you can do and what you can't do. I've got enough firepower to blow you all away if you try anything like heating up someone's gun, so you just take it nice and easy."

Caine nodded shortly in acknowledgement.

"Now, if someone will be kind enough to open the passageway to the catacombs, we'll get on with this."

"How ... do you know of the catacombs?" Matthew asked.

"Oh, did I forget to introduce myself? My name is Anna Weinrich. Ubersturmfuhrer Hans Weinrich was my uncle." She inclined her head toward Matthew. "I believe you made his acquaintance many years ago, during the War? I was only a child then, of course. His son, my dear cousin Frederick, disappeared under mysterious circumstances several years ago. As his only surviving relative, I inherited his estate. I found a letter Hans had written about the Chalice and was eventually able to track down what happened to him." She grinned wolfishly. "Now, if you would, the passage? Or must I persuade you by allowing one of my associates to get in some target practice?"

"We ... will cooperate," Matthew agreed. 

I hadn't expected him to give in that easily, but I certainly had no objections. After all, as the most expendable member of the group, I figured I'd be the most likely target if any practice were to be deemed necessary.

I saw Caine glance at his father, his head inclined fractionally to one side and a question in his eyes. When Matthew nodded, just as fractionally Caine went to a table located off to one side of the sanctuary that had a crucifix flanked by two candles. Lighting one of the candles, he fiddled with the crucifix. A panel slid soundlessly open behind the main altar.

"Very good," Anna said. She gestured towards the rather small opening and a couple of her men ducked through. When one of them came back to report it was all clear, she glanced at us with a mock bow and pointed with her stick. "After you, gentlemen."

I followed Caine and Matthew along the narrow passage. For a ways, it had dirt walls and was lit by torches. Then we came to some larger rooms with stone walls. Caine and Matthew stopped before a square archway with arcane symbols on either side beyond which I could see another room with bright blue walls and paintings of what looked like medieval saints. In yet another room beyond that one, I could see an altar, and -- at long last -- the famous Chalice of I Ching. The Chalice glowed with an eerie light. It was mostly made of gold with the actual cup-shaped section being a translucent green, which might well have been jade. I would have found it quite lovely, had I seen it under different circumstances, like in a nice safe museum somewhere. As it was, the only thought that sprang to my mind was Han Solo's famous remark, "I've got a bad feeling about this."

For a moment, we all just stood there, transfixed by the eerie scene. Then Matthew broke the silence.

"If you dare touch the Chalice, your soul must be free of hatred, guile, and evil," he said mildly, "or you risk being lost forever in the darkness."

"Yes," Anna replied, still staring fixedly at the altar. Then her attention snapped back to us and she grinned again. "That's why I'm not the one who will be going in there."

She turned to face the older Caine.

"Your son once held the Chalice, and was not destroyed. Of course, I never really expected him to show up here the way he did. I actually had it in mind to use you as my conduit. Oh, I know you may well have denied it, but I was willing to take a chance on the purity of your heart, Matthew Caine. However, now that Kwai Chang Caine is here, he'll do even better."

"Better for what?" I put in, tired of being totally ignored.

"It's really quite simple. You see, both my uncle and my unfortunate cousin were far too ambitious. They thought they could grasp all the power of the Chalice directly. They should have known better. Power is dangerous, and not easy to control, especially power that seems to think it has scruples.

"Now me, I'm nowhere near that ambitious. I don't have to rule the world. I'll settle for just a small piece of the pie: a modest amount of wealth and influence will be sufficient."

"But how does this involve me?" Caine asked.

This time she swaggered in his direction, tapping the stick softly against the outside of her thigh. "You've already passed through the three trials, so you can go in there and get the Chalice, then use the power as I command. Oh, nothing dreadful, you understand. I had in mind to start a new religious cult, with me as high priestess. Perform some miracles. Heal the sick. That kind of thing. Why should the Chalice have any objection to that, after all? You'll do it all for me, of course, from behind the scenes somewhere. But the 'miracles' would be real, and they'd all be carefully calculated to increase my prestige and my wealth.

"And all the while, you'd only be using that incredible power to do good. It's not as if I'd be forcing you to harm anyone, or use it for evil."

"Perversion of sincere belief ... is evil," Caine replied. "And the worst kind of evil ... is that which disguises itself as good."

She laughed and tapped her stick against her thigh yet again. "Perhaps. But is it so very awful, in comparison to what could happen? Would you rather work a well-chosen miracle for me now and then -- or would you prefer to see a few innocent folks from St. Adele lose their lives because you proved uncooperative? Your dear old father perhaps?" 

She studied Matthew for a moment, then concluded, "No, I think not. A Shaolin priest does not fear to die. But how about your friend over there?" She jerked her chin in my direction. "He might not be quite so willing to face his destiny."

I wasn't. In fact, I was downright terrified. But I tried hard not to show it, returning glance for glance when her eyes met mine in silent threat. I didn't quite trust myself to say anything though.

"Or our good Father Vashon," Anna went on to suggest, "who even now has one of my people watching him as he sits by the bedside of his unfortunate sister? Do you really think what happened to her was an accident? Ah no, it was merely a ruse to lure him out of my way when I came for the Chalice.

"Or perhaps your dear son, Peter? He's not beyond my reach, you know.

Seeing Caine's eyes narrow, she laughed.

"So what do you say, priest? Have I provided you with sufficient motivation to play my little game?"

Caine looked at her with the closest thing to a glare that I have ever seen on his face.

"Even if I were willing, I am not ... sure ... the Chalice will be so cooperative."

"Ah, but you'll be the one who has to deal with it, not me. If it doesn't like the use you make of it, it will destroy you, as it did my cousin. That's your problem, not mine."

I thought Caine was going to object, but Matthew spoke up before he could say anything. 

"A very ... clever scheme," he said.

"You really think so?"

"Yes. You have thought much on this, ... and worked it out with the thoroughness and efficiency typical of your people."

Yeah, I thought. The very same efficiency that allowed us Germans to so thoroughly slaughter millions of people, not all that many years ago. Matthew, why are you sucking up to her like this? Are you really just as scared of dying as I am?

But I didn't truly believe that was Matthew's reason, although Anna seemed to be buying it, judging by the self-satisfied smirk on her face as she confronted Caine again.

"So which is it to be? Go for it now, or watch a few people die first? It's all the same to me."

Caine gave a deep sigh. His eyes locked with Matthew's and the older man nodded almost imperceptibly. 

"Father ..." Caine began to object. 

Matthew cut him off. "We have little choice, my son. You must do as she says or many innocent people will suffer.

"I ... cannot do this."

"You can. And you must," the elder Caine replied firmly.

Still looking somewhat unconvinced, Caine nevertheless squared his shoulders, walked through the archway and went on into the altar room, with Anna following cautiously behind him. Nothing visible happened, yet the hair along the back of my neck prickled as a sudden tension suffused the very air in the corridor around us.

Striding reluctantly over to the altar, Caine gazed down for a time at the sacred object before him.

"Pick it up," Anna prompted. "And make it quick. I don't like it in here."

With his right hand, Caine grasped the narrow stem of the Chalice, raising it from its resting place. Things got real dramatic then. The Chalice blazed with light at his touch and a glowing yin-yang, complete with tiger and dragon, appeared above it. (Well, why not? It had been made by Shaolin monks, hadn't it?)

I could see Caine only from the back, but he stiffened as if in sudden pain. Lightning snaked around the Chalice and around him. This was starting to look too much like my nightmare. Without thinking, I took a step toward him, but Matthew grabbed my arm, holding me back with surprising strength for a man his age.

Despite the lightning, Caine seemed basically undamaged. Grasping hold of the Chalice with both hands, he turned to face Anna. Their eyes met. Sparks flew -- literally. The lightning around Caine flashed brighter. His body went rigid, an agonized expression frozen on his face. Anna started to back away. With a sizzling crack like thunder, the gathered energy jumped the gap between them. Caine crumpled to the floor, losing his grip on the Chalice, which landed with an unheard clang next to his prostrate form, as Anna shrieked in terror and pain. The energy circled around and through her convulsing body, with scattered fragments darting madly around the room. The ground shook. The ceiling above us groaned and rained down dust.

Anna's troops turned tail and ran back down the corridor, yelling about earthquakes and collapse. I stared transfixed at the scene from my nightmare, as Anna's body disappeared, literally eaten by tongues of flame. The energy continued to play around the room, while the grumble of disturbed earth grew louder. We had to get out of here.

Suddenly, Matthew was no longer by my side but hobbling into the midst of the blinding chaos, his cane forgotten. Without the slightest hesitation, he took hold of the Chalice, which now formed the focal point for the sizzling bolts of lightning. I fully expected to see it destroy him also. Although the energy gathered around him in all its fiery brilliance, he was able to lift the Chalice from the floor. With great effort, he placed it once again on the altar.

As suddenly as they had begun, the fireworks stopped. Caine still lay slumped against the side wall, showing no signs of returning consciousness, but at least he hadn't been totally consumed by the furious energies that had destroyed Anna. Matthew leaned heavily on the altar, obviously exhausted. After a moment, he turned and staggered over to his son. Taking hold of him under his arms, he tried vainly to drag the younger man's dead weight across the floor. 

The chamber threatened to collapse around them. If I'd had any sense, I'd have run off with Anna's men, but I couldn't leave Caine and his father. Bits of rock and mortar fell from above as the ground continued to shake.

Matthew wasn't going to get out in time, I could see that. But I dared not venture in to help him with the ceiling about to cave in. It would be suicide. We could all be crushed under falling rock.

"But Caine needs help," an inner voice urged.

"How much help can I be if we're all dead?" the voice of reason replied.

I dithered for what seemed like hours, but was probably mere seconds. Then Matthew looked up at me. I saw the anguish on his face and automatically started towards him, but he shook his head. His mouth formed the word, "No," although I couldn't hear his voice over the ominous rumble and groan of the angry stone walls.

"Fuck it," I said out loud, as much to the Chalice as to myself. "I can't just stand here. If they die, I die with them."

I stepped through the doorway. 

Just the leftovers of the energy from the Chalice made my skin crawl. It took an actual physical effort on my part simply to cross the room, but I made it. With Matthew pulling one arm and me the other, we dragged Caine as quickly as we could across the floor. I had no time to worry about anything but trying to make it through the archway. 

No sooner had we cleared the doorway with our still-unconscious burden than a massive stone door with an eye in the middle of it simply materialized in its place, missing Caine's heels by bare inches.

The earthquake-effect subsided, but we pulled Caine further from the archway just on sheer momentum. Matthew collapsed next to his son, white as the proverbial sheet and breathing hard. I'd have been worried about him, except that my attention was on Caine, and the fact that he didn't appear to be breathing at all. True to my CPR training, I knelt alongside him and felt for a pulse in the carotid artery next to his trachea, simultaneously tipping his head back to be sure his airway was open and leaning down to watch his chest and abdomen for any sign of movement.

Nothing. No pulse, no breath.

With little real hope -- it seemed quite a long while since he'd collapsed, after all -- I started doing CPR for the first time in my life. I kept my incipient panic at bay only by pretending I was back in the classroom, practicing on the dummy instead of on the person I most loved and valued in the entire world.

Contrary to what you may have seen on TV, CPR is a last resort measure that doesn't succeed most of the time. I don't know if you've ever tried it or not, but one-rescuer CPR will wear you out damn fast. I can't tell you how long I lasted because I wasn't exactly looking at my wristwatch, but at about the time I felt as if I'd soon be on the floor next to my patient, Matthew pulled himself unsteadily up onto his knees, still looking about half dead, and ran his hands along Caine's body, almost but not quite touching him.

"Jeremy," he said at last, "stop now."

I didn't stop. I couldn't, not even as exhausted as I was. Matthew had to grab my wrists and move my hands off Caine's chest.

"There is nothing more that you can do," he said gently, as he again ran his hands lightly over his son's torso. I leaned back, fighting to catch my breath even as I tried to come to terms with the fact that Kwai Chang Caine was beyond my help, or anyone else's.

Matthew continued what he was doing, stopping now and then to rub the dead man's shoulders. I had no idea why. Caine was clearly not alive. This time he had abandoned me for good. It hadn't been his choice, but he was gone. That strangely-cadenced voice was silenced forever, and I'd never feel his arms around me again, or have the benefit of his wisdom and guidance. The footsteps in which I had followed for so many years had come to a stop right here in St. Adele. Now there was no one to measure myself by, no one to strive to imitate, no one to point the way when I was lost.

My guide and touchstone was gone, and all the light drained out of my life, leaving only despair. What would I do now? Where could I go?

And yet I knew the answer, because I'd heard Caine give it often enough before: "You ... go on."

Until the darkness turns to light again, and sorrow gives way to joy. You go on, because the wheel turns, and the circle of light comes around once more. And no one else can find your true path for you, but only you, yourself.

For a time that seemed like hours but was probably only seconds, as I mourned for my mentor and my dearest friend with a breaking heart, I yet realized that I could make it without him. That I could go on, for although Caine lay dead before me, the dreams, the hopes, the ideals that he had embodied were out there still.

Yes, I could and would go on. But there will be forever an empty place in my soul, my Master. A place that only you can fill. My memories will be enough to keep me on the path, but it will be a lonely walk without you by my side. Still, I've been lonely before. I can deal with that.

I was distracted from my bleak musings by a flurry of activity. Matthew opened the flap on Caine's shoulder bag and rummaged quickly through the contents. Finding a small glass vial, he poured some liquid into his son's mouth.

I thought it a rather strange death ritual, but what do I know about such things? Then he started rubbing Caine's chest. There were tears running down the old man's face, but his expression didn't reflect the despair he should be feeling. Maybe the sad truth hadn't hit him just yet. In any case, he was clearly exhausted. If he didn't rest soon, he might easily hurt himself.

I was about ready to grab Matthew's shoulders and get him to stop whatever esoteric ritual he was performing when, against all odds and the science I had learned, Caine's chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, and a touch of color returned to his pale lips.

As I stared in astonishment, the dead man blinked blearily a few times, then his eyes focused on his father and he smiled, before closing his eyes again.

 

Fifteen minutes later, we were in the rectory, with Caine resting more or less comfortably in Father Vashon's narrow bed. The palms of his hands were burned raw where he had touched the Chalice and he was semi-conscious at best. I couldn't find a thermometer, but his forehead felt hot to the touch and he tossed restlessly, as if he had a fever. He seemed to be breathing without undue pain or effort, so I figured I hadn't broken any of his ribs with my frantic efforts at CPR. 

Matthew was now spreading the contents of his son's shoulder bag on the dresser, evidently in the hope of finding more useful herbs. The old man still looked far from well. His hands shook as he examined several small bags and he leaned heavily on his cane as he hobbled over to the bed.

I asked the question that had been burning in my mind ever since we left the catacombs.

"He was dead. How'd you do that?"

"I ... cannot explain. You would not understand."

That cast no light on the subject at all. 

"Well, shouldn't we at least get him to a hospital or something?"

"No. I can do ... more for him here," the old man replied. "Would you please go to the kitchen and boil some water?"

Matthew's request didn't quite penetrate my dazed consciousness. "What if there's been some brain damage?" I persisted. "He wasn't breathing and he had no pulse when I examined him."

Matthew opened Caine's mouth and put something under his tongue. "There are ... Shaolin disciplines that mimic death. He has learned to survive on very little oxygen," the old man explained. "You began doing CPR very soon, although it may have seemed a long time, under the circumstances."

That made sense, at any rate. Maybe Caine's resurrection wasn't just another Shaolin miracle.

"Jeremy," Matthew prompted gently. "The water?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah. On my way."

When I returned with a steaming kettle, I found Matthew sitting in a rocking chair not far from the bed, his head back and his eyes closed. If he'd looked pretty old when I'd first met him, he looked one heck of a lot older now.

"Are you all right?" I asked, hating to disturb him.

"Yes. I am ... just tired," came the ragged reply.

He looked more than tired to me, but I didn't push it. I knew the odds against convincing him to rest while his son needed his care.

When he tried to stand up, he didn't quite make it. His leg gave way, despite the added support of the cane.

"Stay there," I suggested. "Tell me what to do."

He nodded. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes and forehead as if he had a real killer of a headache. Then he instructed me as to which herbs to mix together and steep in the hot water.

"Can I get you something? Maybe some aspirin?" I offered when I had finished preparing the concoction.

"You can ... bring me some of that tea ... when it is ready." He had his glasses off again and his eyes closed.

I took a quick look at Caine. Yes, he was still breathing regularly and seemed to be resting fairly quietly. Going over behind Matthew, I put both hands on his shoulders and began massaging his neck, the way I sometimes do with my patients at the hospital. Nothing fancy, but I know how good it feels.

"Matthew, can I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"The way the Chalice destroyed Anna. Did you know that was going to happen when you encouraged Caine to pick it up?"

"I ... thought it might, ... but I was not ... certain. I did not believe the Chalice would lend itself easily to evil purposes, ... but I hoped my son would not ... become the chief focus of its power."

"You risked his life? And you weren't sure?"

"Yes," he admitted, probably hearing the criticism I couldn't quite keep out of my voice. "Not being sure ... is what risk is all about, is it not?"

Yeah. But I couldn't have staked Caine's life on the good will of a Chalice, however sacred.

"You touched it also," I went on. "How come it didn't affect you?"

"It ... did. But not to the extent that it affected my son. That sort of power can destroy by finding the hidden weaknesses in a man's soul. Even a small thing can be enough. Besides," he went on, "I did not attempt to control the energy that was raised. I merely replaced the Chalice on the altar. I ... do not think I could have survived ... what my son did." Matthew smiled and then shrugged. "In many ways, he has gone beyond me. I am not ... a Shambhala Master. It is ... good for a son to surpass his father, is it not?" 

"Yeah, I guess," I replied vaguely, thinking uneasily of my own late father, the redneck macho truck driver who had never been able to accept the sissy boy he had for a son. Had I surpassed him? I figured I had, but I knew full well that Joseph Langsten would probably not agree.

After I had carefully managed to trickle a good bit of the tea down Caine's throat without choking him, I gave the rest to Matthew. He fell asleep in the rocking chair. I tried to stay awake and keep an eye on our patient, but I eventually dozed off sitting on the floor and leaning back against the bed.

Come morning, Caine wasn't much better. But then again, he was no worse either. Physically, he seemed stronger, his face had more color, and he wasn't as fevered. Yet he was more restless and sometimes appeared to be hallucinating or delirious. He tossed and turned, often moaning or even crying out in anguish, especially if Matthew actually touched him. Whatever he was dreaming, it wasn't good.

"What's wrong?" I asked Matthew. Unlike his son, a night's sleep had done him a world of good. He seemed almost back to his old self again.

He sighed. "Whatever weakness or flaw the Chalice found in him has been ..." he hesitated, gesturing vaguely with one hand as he groped for words to explain the concept "... torn open. His spirit must heal, as well as his body, and it ... cannot."

"Can't we do something?"

"We will try ... when the time comes. For now, we will care for his body. I need ... more hot water, Jeremy."

"Coming right up."

 

It was mid-afternoon when Caine finally woke up. Matthew had dozed off again in the rocking chair, but I was sitting by the bed, idly paging through a book on French artwork that I had found on a shelf. (Of course, I couldn't read the French text, but I could look at the pictures. Sitting by an unconscious patient is boring.)

I glanced up from a lazy pastoral landscape and found Caine with his eyes open, looking in his father's direction.

"Hey, you're awake," I said softly, hoping to let Matthew rest a little longer. "How do you feel?"

"Like something ... the cat ... buried?" he suggested.

"You mean 'dragged in', don't you?" 

He nodded. I was just relieved to hear him making sense, even if he had gotten the idiom scrambled. He could have come to in much worse condition, or never come to at all. I'd seen too many "vegetables" at the hospital not to know what brain damage can do to a person.

"You're lucky to be alive at all," I went on. "If your chest feels as if it's been mashed, that's because I did CPR. What your father did, I couldn't tell you. You'll have to ask him about that, if you want to know."

A strange look came over his face when I mentioned Matthew. It was almost a grimace of pain, as if merely thinking of his father hurt him in some way. His eyes shifted back to the old man, still asleep in the rocker across the room. Again I caught that strange feeling of unease. Maybe it was time to talk about this?

"What is it between you and Matthew?" I began cautiously.

"It is ... nothing," he said, but he was looking at the book in my hand, not directly into my eyes.

"Nothing? Are you sure? You two just don't seem comfortable with each other, if you ask me."

"I did not ... ask you." The tone of his voice took some of the sting out of what might almost have been a rude reply. I thought of that Bardo bit from my nightmare.

"No, you didn't ask me. But I'm asking you. Are you angry at him?"

No response. I babbled on. "Look, he seems a real decent guy, from all I've seen. He loves you a lot, you know. For instance, he just risked his life to save you."

Caine grimaced again and turned his head away. Even so, I persisted. "I'd be overjoyed to have someone like that as a father."

"You ... do not know him."

"Would you like to trade? I'll take your father any day."

"Whatever his faults, you father did not ... abandon you."

I was surprised at the venom in his voice. But not as surprised as he was at my bitter reply.

"Shit, I wish my old man had left! I'd have been far better off without him. His only saving grace was that he was a truck driver, and so wasn't around much. Whenever he was around, he always made fun of me and put me down. When he wasn't beating on me, that is. I learned one very valuable lesson from my father: How not to be a man."

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself before going on. "Of course, he and I might have gotten along better if I had been more of a regular boy. Having a sissy for a son really grated on his nerves."

"Even so, ... he should not have hurt you."

"Yeah, well, that's old history. He's dead now, and I wasn't with him when he died. He didn't want me."

"If he had, ... would you have gone to him?"

That shook me a little, but I tried to pass it off with a shrug. (That always worked for Caine, didn't it?)

"I don't know. Maybe. But it's too late to worry about that now. And if you don't settle whatever's between you and your father, it will be too late for you one of these days. He's not getting any younger, you know."

For some reason, that brought a slight smile to Caine's lips, so I blundered blindly along.

"What did he do that hurt you so much?" I had a pretty good idea, but I was playing therapist now and figured it was better to get Caine to say it out loud.

"When I was 14, he ... went away. To lead an expedition ... searching for treasure in Tibet. He ... refused to take me along, although I ... begged to be able to go. He never came back. It was assumed ... that the expedition met with an accident."

I almost said something there, but he went on before I had a chance, his voice strained as if it were an effort just to force the words out.

"He ... left me with friends, in a small Shaolin Temple in Massachusetts. I waited ... hoping ... for many years, ... and then I ... gave up. When I came of age, ... I left the Temple ... and tried to forget."

Caine half sat up in the narrow bed, then fell back.

"He left me ... to search for treasure," came the anguished reply. "I would never leave Peter like that."

I raised an eyebrow.

"No? I'm told you went away once for six months, not long after you two were reunited. And what about that Rocky Dalton business? That was a long three months for Peter."

"It was ... necessary, under the circumstances," he reminded me. 

"Okay, suppose it was necessary, under the circumstances," I allowed. "But you've left him again now. When's the last time you even sent him a postcard?"

"I ... do not need to send postcards. Peter ... knows."

"Yeah? Are you so sure of that? Have you seen the look in his eyes when people ask him about you? I have. He’s hurting. He really needs to hear from you on something other than the astral plane."

Caine raised his hands in a rather pathetic gesture of helplessness.

"I ... have nothing to tell him. I have not yet found his mother, nor do I know where my path lies from here."

"It's not Laura he misses right now. It's you."

Caine winced again. I was hitting an exposed nerve and I knew it. But I couldn't stop.

"Remember I told you about that dream or vision or whatever it was that made Lo Si send me here?"

He nodded.

"Well, there was more to it than I told you. Listen."

I described the Bardo and the argument I had witnessed. As I went on, Caine shook his head repeatedly, as if he wished he could deny it, but in all honesty could not.

"So it really happened like that?" I asked at last. "I wasn't just imagining things?"

"It ... happened."

"Does your father know? Was he really there, or was he just an image dredged up from your subconscious?"

"I ... am not sure. But I think ... he was really there. I think ... he had come after me."

I nodded. "Figures. Sounds like something he would do."

"Yes," Caine admitted, once again glancing towards Matthew.

"You know, seems to me you're pretty pissed off at him," I suggested. "You've been mad about this for a lot of years."

"No. I am Shaolin. I cannot be ... mad ... over such a thing," he replied, with far too much vehemence for it to be true. "I have ... forgiven him."

"Oh, really? Or do you just feel that you should have forgiven him? There's a difference."

He closed his eyes. Maybe I'd pushed him too far. After all, he was still pretty weak. Worried, I reached over to touch his arm.

And suddenly I was in an ornate hallway with a high ceiling and rich wood paneling on both sides. A motley crew of strange people were following Caine, who was dressed in a white robe. But stranger than any of these folks was the man walking beside him clad in a floor-length black cloak, his long hair pulled to one side and falling bizarrely over one shoulder. They carried on some sort of intense conversation. Then they stopped walking and I could hear the words.

"Evil begets evil," Caine said to the other man. "It will turn on you too. You have lived alone. You will die alone."

"Because he left me," came the quick answer, full of resentment.

"He left me too. Sometimes one must respond to a higher calling, especially if one's name is Caine."

The picture faded. I released his arm.

"Who was the weird dude with the pony tail?" I asked.

"My ... brother. His name is Damon."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. That brother." Now that he reminded me, I recalled him mentioning two brothers to me once before. But I'd never met either of them.

"Well, you may have said that to Damon, but have you truly been able to feel it in your heart? Or have you merely buried the resentment you feel for your father, in the service of a 'higher cause'?"

I saw a quick flash of anger in those hazel eyes.

"Jeremy, ... you are asking for ... hard truths here. In return, ... you must face a hard truth ... of your own."

That was only fair. I met his gaze squarely and nodded a fraction, confident that I could handle whatever he threw at me. After all, I was the one playing therapist now, wasn't I?

"What ...," he asked softly, "do you feel for me ... because I left you?"

It was my turn to wince. "Touché," I whispered, feeling the tears come to my eyes.

"Sorrow," I replied.

"Is that ... all?"

I turned away. Until that moment, I hadn't fully realized just how much anger had built up in my heart since Caine had left Sloan City all those months ago. I should have seen it long before. After all, as any shrink will tell you, suppressed anger is very often a big factor in depression. It has a way of turning back upon itself, if it isn't recognized and expressed in some manner.

Caine left. How dare he go, when I wanted him here? How could he do this to me?

How easily can that train of thought circle around and become: What's wrong with me that he could leave so easily? I must not be worthy of his caring. In that case, I must not be worth much. I'm not worth shit.

And you're a grown man, Jeremy. What if it happened to a 14 year-old kid? And then lay buried all those years? What then? At least Peter had believed his father dead. Matthew had left of his own free will.

After all this, could there possibly not be anger in Caine's heart? Anger far greater than any I had a right to feel?

I thought back to what Matthew had said about the Chalice, and what might cause the destruction of a person who touched it. Hatred. Guile. Evil.

Anger enough to almost qualify as hatred? Anger enough to provide that weakness in a man's soul that would make him just vulnerable enough to the tremendous energy unleashed that he was now in pretty serious danger?

What can possibly be done to defuse that anger and deprive it of that awful power? All I could think of to do was to recognize it and speak it out loud, preferably to the object of that anger.

I forced myself to look back at Caine and answer the question he had asked me.

"No, that isn't all. Rage. Sometimes I hate you. I cared for you. I needed your guidance and support. More than anything on earth, I -- love you," I admitted. "And yet, I hate you also, because you can never be mine, and you went away."

I heard Caine sigh. When I finally looked over at him, there were tears on his face also. I smiled bravely.

"Makes no sense, does it? How can it be possible to love someone and hate them, both at the same time?"

"I ... do not know. But it is ... how I feel about my father," he said, the words seeming almost to hurt his lips even as he forced them out. "I love him ... and I hate him very much, for hurting me. I should not ... and yet I do."

The rocking chair creaked. We both looked around. Matthew sat there leaning forward on his cane, his eyes shining.

"My son, ... for many weeks when I lay near death in Tibet, ... my greatest fear, and greatest regret ... was that I thought I would never see you again ... in this life. I knew ... you resented my leaving, ... but I had hoped one day you might have understood."

He sighed, the way Caine does. Then he looked up and met Caine's eyes squarely.

"Yet, despite my love, there were times ... when I felt ... hatred for you. When I returned to China and learned that Su Ling had been murdered, ... I myself found it hard to love you ... because you had survived, while she had not."

"I was only a child. Her death was not my fault," Caine pointed out, almost sounding put-upon.

"I ... know. But I felt it even so."

"That ... was not fair."

"Feelings ... are not always fair, just as hatred and love are not ... strangers. The two walk hand in hand. Some say anger is based on fear. But may it not also be based on hurt? And that which we love the most ... is that which can hurt us the worst."

Caine shook his head, as if he'd like to deny what his father was saying.

"When Laura died and left you with a baby to raise," I interjected carefully, "did you never feel about Peter the sort of thing your father just described?"

This time he did sit up.

"No! I did not ... I never ..." 

"Never? Are you real sure of that?" 

Caine glanced briefly at his father and then looked away. A shiver ran through his body and I almost thought he was going to collapse down onto the bed again. Instead, he closed his eyes, took a slow breath and said brokenly, "You ... are right. I ... did."

It got awfully quiet in the little room. At last I could stand it no longer, and suggested, "At this point, I believe Father Vashon might have brought up the famous saying about letting the one who is without sin amongst us cast the first stone?"

Caine looked at me. Then a smile spread slowly across his face and he gave a soft laugh. He held out his open arms toward Matthew. "Father?"

The old man covered the distance between them faster than I would have thought possible. He sat down on the side of the bed and took his son into a tight embrace.

I leaned back in my chair and allowed the tension to flow out of my body, much relieved at having managed -- for once in my life! -- to say the right thing at the right time. 

Now all that remained for me to do was to practice what I preached. Hadn't I just seen Caine struggling with the same sort of anger that was eating away at me? Given that, surely I could find it in my heart to make peace with the one who had left me, and forgive him also. I figured I could do that.

I looked at the two Caines, still holding each other and crying. As the tears came to my eyes, I knew I could do that.

 

Once he had reconciled with his father, Caine recovered his strength quickly. By the time Father Vashon returned the following morning, our erstwhile patient was already up and around. I had all of one day to sightsee, walking through the countryside and around the quaint old village of St. Adele with Caine, and visiting Matthew's nearby cottage. Then it was time to head for the local airport and the small plane that would take me on to the international airport in Paris.

Caine and Matthew came along to see me off. As the other passengers made their way out onto the runway, I turned to Caine and asked the question I had avoided for as long as I could.

"When are you coming back to Sloan City?" I managed to say, trying to keep my voice light.

"I ... do not know."

Now, why did that answer fail to surprise me?

"Oh, come on," I persisted. "You must have some idea of what you plan to do now."

"I ... have not yet found my wife."

"But you'll be back when you do?"

If you do, I added silently to myself. Personally, I figured the woman was long dead.

"Jeremy, ... I ... cannot promise."

I still wasn't ready to give up.

"But there's a good chance. Right?"

"Yes."

I almost left it at that, but then I thought better of it. "Even if you never come back," I said, facing him squarely, "I'll be all right. You know that, don't you?"

He nodded solemnly. I grinned and added, "But I'd rather you did come back."

"I ... know that also," he replied.

Satisfied, I started toward the waiting airplane. When I was almost at the boarding ramp, I turned back and called out, "Hey! When you come, bring your dad along for a visit. Okay?"

"Okay," Caine agreed slowly, placing one arm around Matthew's shoulder.

I left them standing there together and hurried up the steps to the plane before he could change his mind.


	11. Lesson of the Fountain

LESSON OF THE FOUNTAIN

In the half-light of a cloudy dawn, I sat in the park bordering on Chinatown and stared at the fountain. It was an ungainly structure, made up of many twisted and curled pieces of some sort of metal. Judging by the greenish patina, I figured the metal to be brass or copper. Suspended on several pipes like spindly legs, the fountain squatted above a cluster of rocks in the middle of a shallow pool, an exercise in modern abstract sculpture. A crystal umbrella of water spread moisture in a small arc above the highest part, but it was off to one side, giving the entire thing a distinctly lopsided appearance. The water trickled or flowed over and through the various bits of metal, most of it rushing along relatively straight paths down into the pool below with the sound of gentle rain, while some took the long way around, following random twists and turns on the convoluted surfaces. Some few dribbles never seemed to reach the bottom, having been sent by the winds of fortune on such a long journey that they finally gave up and evaporated before reaching their goal.

I felt like one of those unfortunate dribbles as I sat cross-legged on the concrete wall around the pool. I'd gone on a lot of detours and hit quite a few dead ends in my half century of life. Now I was beginning to feel as if I'd come to the end of yet another road and I was still left stranded, like the one sad drop of water whose progress I was currently watching, alone on a hard and arid surface, making no progress at all. While my fellows dripped cheerfully down into the pool, I lay, like an exhausted teardrop, without the energy or inclination to go further.

Somewhere on the road to my destiny, had I followed another wrong turn and gotten lost again? It had all seemed so right while Kwai Chang Caine was around. I was really into Taoist philosophy and all this other Chinese stuff, even studying T'ai Chi Ch'uan with Caine for a time. But now he was gone, off in France somewhere searching for his wife. And not having a whole lot of luck finding her either, according to what Lo Si had told me after he and Peter and a few of the other folks from the Precinct had returned from a recent trip to Paris.  
It was going on nine months now since Caine had left Sloan City. Yeah, he'd kind of said he'd return, but he'd never said when, and I knew full well he was capable of disappearing for a good long time when he felt he had to.

Pulling my sweater closer around me in the chill of early morning, I glanced around the park in the direction of Chinatown.

Come on, Jeremy, old boy, I whispered to myself. Who do you think you're fooling? You're not Chinese. This isn't your heritage. Why bother trying to be something you're not? Who are you trying to impress? Caine? He isn't here, and anyway he doesn't care. Didn't he say you needed to find your own way without him, just before he left? Face the facts. Maybe this isn't your way. Maybe you're off on another spiritual detour, and you've come to the end of the road.

I rose somewhat stiffly to my feet. Taking off my glasses, I wiped the smudged lenses clear of moisture with a tissue. Spray from the fountain must have splattered in my face. Couldn't be tears. Nah. I wouldn't sit out here in public, crying. Of course not.

I wasn't due for my shift at the hospital for several hours yet, so why was I up and prowling restlessly around the park, instead of still snuggled under the covers of a warm bed? That's what I asked myself as I continued to walk the streets of Chinatown, searching in vain for something I couldn't name. To the Chinese who lived here, I must seem nothing but a strange outsider, even though I'd made an effort to learn the customs and even a bit of the language.

Although the sun had risen high enough to peek between the buildings, a damp autumn breeze reminded me that I should have worn my jacket. A few other folks were out and about now, but I knew things wouldn't really get busy for a couple of hours yet, when the shops would open, spilling merchandise out onto the sidewalks in exotic displays.

I walked amongst the babble of foreign signs, only now and then catching sight of a word I recognized in the complex Chinese script. The memory of that ungainly fountain still nagged at me and my thoughts were as sharp-edged and twisted as the metal pieces of that tortured sculpture.

It was with a small shock of surprise that I realized I was standing in front of Caine's old kwoon.

There are a lot of memories scattered around Chinatown. Sometimes they take me by surprise, lurking in places I don't remember until I actually get there. Some are of Bobbie Ling, my deceased lover, but most are of Caine. However, the old kwoon wasn't one of them, since I hadn't even known Caine was here in Sloan City until well after he'd stopped teaching and moved into his other quarters. Cheryl had told me about those earlier days though, so I knew where the kwoon was and had passed by it many times.

I couldn't read the Chinese sign on the door, but from the deserted look of the building I figured it said the equivalent of FOR RENT. Cheryl had mentioned that the exterior hadn't changed much, so the multi-colored designs above the door were probably the same as they had been when Caine had been there teaching.

The sidewalk was lined with small trees in square concrete pots. One of them happened to be just in front of the building, so I leaned my rear against it, trying to look as if I were merely resting, not studying the kwoon. The street behind me was quite wide, but there wasn't much traffic as yet.

I couldn't help but wonder what had become of Caine's original students, when he had closed the kwoon and left for six months a few years back. Had they found other teachers, or simply quit? A few, like Cheryl, had sought him out after he'd returned and continued their studies, just as Cheryl and I had continued to study T'ai Chi with Lo Si, now that Caine was gone again.

"Jeremy?" came a familiar voice from behind me. "What are you doing here?"

I turned around to find Peter pulled over to the curb in that fancy blue sportscar he drives.

I shrugged. "Nothing really. Just walking around on my way to work."

"Want a ride to the hospital? I'm headed there myself."

There was still almost two hours before I was supposed to be on duty in MRI, but I figured a leisurely breakfast in the cafeteria wouldn't be a bad idea. Beats wandering the streets, anyway.

I got into the car. Now, Peter and I have never been real close, but you can hardly know Caine without knowing his son. I think it made the boy nervous to have a gay guy like me be friends with his father. He was never anything less than polite to me, of course, but somewhere inside he was on guard. I could always see it in his eyes.

Peter didn't say much as he threaded his way through the streets. Traffic was just beginning to pick up, as rush hour approached in the city. I studied him out of the corner of my eyes. His forehead was crinkled in a slight frown, and his lips were too tightly pressed together. He wore a Chinese-style shirt, with a Mandarin collar. Now that I noticed it, he seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Almost as if he were trying to be his father by dressing like him.

Well, I could hardly criticize the boy on that score. My taste in clothes had certainly swung in that same direction. I've been known to look at a shirt in the store and think to myself, "Yeah, Caine would wear that. I think I'll get it."

As a result, very few of my shirts had regular collars anymore. Of course, I knew I couldn't pretend to be Kwai Chang Caine in any even remotely serious way. It was just sort of an expression of my feeling about the man. My wish to be like him, if you will.

I glanced over again at Peter, who was still frowning. Poor kid. You really do have to be like him, I thought. And it isn't easy, is it?

He was uncharacteristically quiet as he drove, so I kept quiet also. The radio announcer had just begun the morning news as we neared County General. I only half-listened to a story about some wild animals escaping from one of those little zoos that are really just roadside tourist traps outside the city, and the disgraceful conditions the investigators had found at the so-called zoo. The police spokesman was confident that the animals would be quickly found and captured.

I only half-listened to the broadcast, caught up as I was in my consideration of Caine's son.

By the time we pulled into a space in the parking lot, Peter still looked distinctly unhappy, to say the least. Something was more than usually wrong.

"You know Mrs. Tung, don't you?" he asked as we got out of the car.

"Yeah, a little." No one in Chinatown didn't know of her, even if they didn't know her personally. Mrs. Tung and her husband had run one of the more successful import/export businesses. After her husband's death, the widow had turned the company over to her adult children, but she had set up a number of grants for projects to help the local community and had spent her time overseeing their progress. Now in her late eighties, her health was failing rapidly. About a year ago, I had done an MRI on her, after she'd had a small stroke. Just yesterday, I'd noticed her being brought in unconscious from the ER for a CT scan. She had coded in the ambulance, but been resuscitated. Peeking over the CT tech's shoulder, I had seen the tell-tale swatch of white smeared across the image of her brain that indicated a massive hemorrhage.

Peter ran one hand through his hair. "Well, she's dying. I know the family expects me to be there, but I don't know what they think I can do for her."

"I doubt there's anything anyone can do for her, at this point."

"My father –"

"Even your father couldn't cure terminal illnesses."

"I know. I just feel as if I should --." he shook his head, his words trailing off.

"Mind if I come with you? I don't have to be at work for a while yet, and I'd like to pay my respects to the family." As a matter of fact, I had a personal reason for being grateful to Mrs. Tung. One of her projects had been helping to arrange a display of the AIDS Memorial Quilt in Chinatown, about a year and a half ago. That display had been very important to my dying lover.

Peter nodded, so I trailed after him through the corridors and up to her room in ICU. Mrs. Tung looked bad. The tube from the respirator snaked down her throat and the usual assortment of monitors bleeped unhappily. The old woman showed no signs of life or consciousness, other than the forced rise and fall of her chest. Any improvement in her condition was unlikely.

I knew the family would have some hard decisions to make in the very near future. 

When we reached the room, the only person I recognized was a young woman standing near the window, so I went over to her and spoke a few words of respect for her grandmother, inquiring whether there had been any change in the old woman's condition. Everyone else was speaking Chinese, so I had only the sketchiest idea of what was going on. But I did see the very slight evidences of disappointment in the faces of the older people when they saw Peter. It was nothing deliberate, of course. That would have been most impolite. But I'd lived here in Chinatown long enough to pick up on nuances that might not have been apparent to most Westerners, so I knew that Peter wasn't the one they truly wanted to see. 

Peter tried his best, his voice expressing the utmost respect and concern as he made several passes with his hands over the unconscious woman, much as I had often seen his father do in such a situation.

Then the Ancient walked in the door, and everything changed. Immediately, all eyes were on him as he too examined Mrs. Tung. I still couldn't understand what was being said, but the conversation became animated as various family members questioned Lo Si, clearly wanting to know what he thought and if there was anything to be done. 

From a cloth shopping bag on one arm, the old man unpacked several things, setting out a small incense burner and a few strangely-shaped bottles on the bedside table. He spoke at length to the family, his voice and expression grave. Clearly, he was telling them bad news, rather than offering hope for the patient's recovery. I saw a tear slide down the cheek of the grand-daughter who was next to me, then she went to stand beside an older woman who might have been her mother.

As the unhappy discussion continued, I noticed Peter still standing by Mrs. Tung's bedside, virtually ignored by everyone. Our eyes met, and I saw a brief flash of pain before he turned on his heel and walked quietly but quickly out of the room. I followed, as unobtrusively as I could.

He was already halfway down the hospital corridor as I hurried after him.

"Peter, wait!"

When he turned to look at me, the stricken expression on his face made me realize just how much he was hurting. There were actually tears in his eyes.

"Jeremy, I can't do this. I just –"

"I know. Look, a hospital corridor is no place for talking. Come with me."

I led him down the closest stairway and out the exit door. Off to one side of the parking lot, there's a little patch of lawn, landscaped with trees and bushes and a couple of benches. No one else was there. I sat down on one of the benches. After a moment of hesitation, Peter sat next to me.

"They didn't want me there, Jeremy. I could tell. When the Ancient walked in, it was different."

"Peter, the Ancient is --" I shrugged. "Well, he's the Ancient. He's had a lot more experience with this than you have. What did you expect?"

"I don't know. My father left me to take his place, but it isn't working. It's not just Mrs. Tung's family. It's everybody. I can't do what Pop did. I don't know enough about the herbs or about any of it." He held his hands out in a helpless gesture. "It isn't that I don't want to. I just don't have the same knack for it that he had."

He shook his head and frowned before adding bitterly, "Come to Chinatown. Ask for Caine. Yeah, sure. But when they find out which Caine I am -- " He left it hanging, shaking his head again. "I don't get it. People won't come to me. I'm just not one of them. Is it my American face? Pop doesn't look much more Chinese than I do. Heck, even Master Khan is better accepted as one of them. It can't be that."

"No, it isn't," I said. "Look, I don't quite know how to explain this, but you don't come off as Chinese, whereas your father did, despite his face. And if even I can feel this, imagine how obvious it must be to everyone else around here?"

Peter nodded. "I know what you mean. But what can I do?" He shook his head again. "It's not working. It's just not working. I wish my father would come back."

So do I! I thought, but I couldn't say that out loud. Before I could figure out what to say, Peter stood up and turned his back to me. When he started talking again, his voice came out rough and broken.

"Pop never had to worry about paying the bills. Everything just seemed to work out for him. Well, nothing's working out for me. I can't even meet my car payments anymore. On top of everything else, I'm going broke." He laughed bitterly, then turned to face me again. "Shit, I don't know why I'm telling you this. You can't help me."

"I'm really not sure what to tell you, Peter." I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. "I envy you, in many ways. I'd be proud to be Kwai Chang Caine's son." I glanced pointedly down at his forearms, concealed beneath the long sleeves of his shirt. "I only wish I were worthy of being Shaolin – " I meant to go on to say that I knew it wasn't easy for him, but Peter interrupted me before I could continue.

"What would you know about being Shaolin?" he asked angrily. "What would you know about any of it?"

"Peter – " I reached out one hand to touch him, in a foolish attempt at comfort. I shouldn't have done that. He grabbed my arm. The edge of my shirtsleeve pulled up far enough to show the network of thin white scars that criss-crossed the inside of my wrist. I was hoping he was so involved with his own problems that he wouldn't notice, but my hope was dashed by the look in his eyes. He let go of my arm.

I pulled my sleeve down again, trying to pass the whole thing off as casually as possible. "I once heard your father, or perhaps it was the Ancient, say something to the effect that the wise Shaolin goes around with his arms covered. Well, for far less commendable reasons, so does the failed suicide, especially if he made mincemeat of his wrists more than halfway to his elbows. It really isn't anything I want to show off."

"I guess I can understand that," was the somewhat strained reply. To his credit, Peter didn't ask me why I had wanted to kill myself. We weren't so close that I wanted to talk about it. Besides, that had been many years ago. It really didn't matter anymore. I had worked through my tendencies to off myself with Caine, shortly after I had first met him. Ever since then, I hadn't even been tempted to try it again. . 

"Shit, Peter, at least the scars on your arms stand for an admirable accomplishment. That's a hell of a lot more than I can say about mine."

The anger went out of him then. In a voice startlingly gentle, he replied, "Maybe they are admirable, if you survived and learned something." He shrugged, then went on, "It wasn't really like I had a choice. I had to do this to save my father. Not the best reason in the world."

"Lo Si once told me he originally became a Shaolin priest to avenge what a warlord did to his family. Saving your father's life is certainly better than that. Maybe a worthy goal can come about even from a less-than-worthy reason?" 

"Yeah. Maybe." A crooked grin brightened his face for a moment, then was gone.

I tried to smile back. "You'll get it all sorted out eventually. I know you will."

He still looked far from happy. Well, who could blame him? I was far from happy myself. "Look, it's gonna work out. I don't know how, but it is. Hang in there. Okay?"

"Okay. Yeah." He ran one hand through his hair. His smile was as ragged as mine, but it was there. "How about some breakfast? Is the cafeteria still open?"

I looked at my wristwatch. "We've got twenty minutes. Let's go."

 

I was late getting out of work that night. By the time I rushed home, changed into my T'ai Chi uniform, and got to Lo Si's place, I was barely in time for class. I'd been thinking about Peter all day long so I guess I must have been kind of distracted. It wasn't until I was already on the porch that I remembered our class was supposed to meet in the park tonight, weather permitting.

Rats, now I'd be really late. Maybe it wasn't worth going at all.

I turned and headed back to the street, just in time to see Peter pull up at the curb. We both grinned.

"This is twice in one day, Peter. We've got to quit meeting like this," I quipped.

"Lo Si not home?"

"Nah. I forgot our class was in the park."

"Hop in and I'll take you there. I need to talk to the Ancient."

 

When we got to the park, Peter pulled over to the side of the road. Just across the lawn, we could see the T'ai Chi class, almost finished their warm-up exercises. 

"Why don't you join us?" I suggested to Peter.

He shook his head. "I'll wait here. I want to think."

Getting out of the car, I hurried across the grass, watching the Ancient and marveling at the grace of his movements, as always.

Lo Si. The little man with the wispy beard and the glasses, the odd accent and fragile-looking body, who seemed like someone from another world, another time, living only half in the present. Behind him shone the glory of an incredibly rich spiritual tradition, and a civilization so ancient it boggled the mind. I sensed a complexity and a depth to this man that I might never fully comprehend. I couldn't help thinking wryly that I wanted to be like him when I grew up. (If I ever do grow up, that is. Even though my hair is turning gray now and I feel the years invading my bones, somewhere inside I'm still twenty-one. Aren't we all?)

Bowing hastily, I slipped into a place at the edge of the class and started stretching.

I'm sorry to have to admit that my attempts to learn T'ai Chi with Lo Si as my teacher were unremarkable at best, perhaps because his other students were so much better at it that I felt utterly inept in comparison. There were rare moments when things just worked, when some of the movements seemed almost to perform themselves, when something that had previously been hard was no longer very difficult. But those moments were overshadowed, in my mind at least, by my general lack of grace and coordination. Let's face it, the Karate Kid I’m not. (And never had been, even way back when my father had sent me off to karate lessons in a vain effort to make a man out of his sissy of a son.)

I wasn't exactly a quick study either. After more than a year, I still had quite a few more moves to go before I'd know the entire Long Form, and that night I was doing poorly indeed. My mind was divided between the Form and the thought of Peter sitting in his car, stewing over his own problems, which weren't really so unlike my own. As any martial arts student will tell you, distraction is not the recommended state of mind. I fumbled through the first part of the Form, then came to a move with the elaborate name of Carry Tiger to Mountain. 

Unfortunately, instead of carrying anything even remotely resembling a tiger to a mountain, when I stepped around behind myself and turned, I caught my foot on the exposed root of a nearby tree. I lost my balance and started to fall sideways.

Before I hit the ground, I was grabbed from behind and set back securely on my feet. I wasn't particularly surprised to find that Lo Si was the one who had caught me, although the last time I had noticed, he had been a good distance away observing one of the other students.

"Sorry. Guess I didn't see that root."

Lo Si shook his head the slightest fraction before replying. "Jeremy, you must learn to see with more than your eyes."

"More than my eyes? Shit, I can't even see with my eyes!" I replied emphatically.

"All the more reason to learn to do without them," the old man said, inclining his head so that the sunlight reflected off the rather thick glasses he too wore.

I sighed and nodded, acknowledging his point. My clumsiness had fortunately not disrupted the rest of the class, who were now much further ahead of me.

"Return to the beginning and try again," Lo Si suggested.

I did as directed, while the Ancient turned his attention back to Cheryl and the other students. Several minutes later, I was once again ready to Carry the Tiger to the Mountain. I stepped around behind myself and turned into the proper position without losing my balance. Then I happened to glance up at the small grove of trees to one side of our practice area -- and found myself looking at a real tiger!

I did the proverbial double-take, figuring I must be imagining things. Nope, the tiger was still there. It was crouched partly under cover of the trees, watching us intently.

My next thought was "Oh, no! Bon Bon Hai again! What does he want now?"

However, this particular tiger was scrawny and scruffy-looking. Bon Bon Hai wouldn't look like that, not even as an animal. Oh, shit! That meant it was real! Probably one of the animals that escaped from that disreputable zoo I'd heard about on the radio this morning.

"Uh – Lo Si – " I began, nervously. But the Ancient had, of course, already noticed our peril. He was standing not far from me, looking in the same direction.

"Begin the form once more," he instructed the class, his voice barely audible. "Slowly, calmly. Do not hurry."

By now the others had also realized the danger. However, we were so accustomed to obeying the Ancient that we did not question his directions. Everyone fell into the beginning posture automatically, starting the movements on his soft command.

"Cheryl," he continued, "guide the class away from the trees. Gradually. Make no sudden movements. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

We followed Cheryl, lengthening some of the stances and shortening others in such a manner that we steadily increased our distance from the watching tiger, which had now dropped down into the distinctive crouch of a feline getting ready to attack. Lo Si, meanwhile, followed his own trajectory and moved progressively closer to the creature.

Still, we went on. How we kept our cool I don't know. My brain was screaming at me to run like hell, but if I had, that would probably have provoked the tiger into chasing me. Instead, the slow, almost hypnotic rhythm of T'ai Chi must not have engaged its instinct to pursue, since we weren't acting like the usual prey. Every time I caught a glimpse of the tiger, it was just crouching there, watching us intently, tail switching from side to side.

I came to the end of what I knew of the form. All I could think of to do was start over again, but now I was out of synch with the others. We no longer moved as a unit. For a moment, that disrupted my concentration and I forgot what came next. I did the only thing I could think of: picked up with whatever movement came to my mind and kept going from there. 

I was lagging behind the others, turning in different directions but trying hard to move at that same calm and measured pace, gradually creeping further from the trees but at a different angle. I turned slowly in what was called a Single Whip. That's when I saw Peter getting out of his car, gun in hand. He must have noticed the tiger, even though it would have been pretty well hidden in the woods at that distance. 

He couldn't get a clear shot because we were in his way, so I saw him circle out to one side. He moved slowly, gracefully, keeping to the same languid rhythm of the T'ai Chi moves we were doing. His trajectory would bring him closer to me than to the other students, not an entirely unwelcome thought under the circumstances, since I was now closer to the tiger than all of the others, with the exception of Lo Si. Let it just hold off attacking for a little longer, and I might be safe.

As I turned carefully and began the next part of the form, I could see the Ancient still heading toward the beast, who now appeared to be watching him intently. The old man moved with quiet confidence, his entire attitude radiating peace rather than fear. He executed the side kicks slowly and perfectly on balance, so they seemed a part of a dance rather than martial arts. He was only about ten feet from the tiger, whose ears were now pricked forward with apparent curiosity. There was something very strange going on. No one in his right mind approaches a tiger, but that's exactly what Lo Si had done. At first I thought he might be using himself as bait, trying to draw the creature away from his class, but now I wasn't so sure

On the surface, the only thing I could see was an old man foolishly approaching a wild beast, and yet I knew – I saw – that in some strange way there was more to it than met the eye.

Peter, meanwhile, was almost next to me, his gun raised in front of him as he tried to find his aim. Lo Si must clearly be in his way, as the barrel wavered minutely from side to side.

I was once again up to the Carry Tiger move. I stepped around and turned, bringing my hands carefully into position. As I did so, I deliberately pushed the barrel of Peter's gun sideways a few inches.

If it hadn't been totally unexpected, I doubt I'd have been able to do it, but Peter's attention was focused entirely on the tiger, not me. I stopped right there, face to face with the young man, the side of my hand still touching the cold metal of the automatic pistol.

"Don't shoot," I hissed.

Peter looked past me, not daring to take his eyes off his target. "Are you crazy?! That tiger's going to -- "

"Hold still. Give Lo Si a chance."

"Lo Si?" he said, as if he'd just now noticed what the old priest had been doing. "Chance to do what?"

"I don't know. Whatever he has in mind. Just don't move."

Turning slowly, I tried to see what was happening behind me, hoping I hadn't read the situation entirely wrong.

The Ancient went into the final move of the Form, coming to rest directly in front of the tiger. For a long moment, he simply stood there. All I could see was his back, but it seemed as if he bowed slightly to the beast. Then he stepped forward and turned just far enough that I could see him reaching out one hand.

I almost expected the tiger to bite off the old man's arm. Instead, it sniffed tentatively at the outstretched hand.

Lo Si touched the tawny head. Some of the tension went out of the tiger's body. I could see the powerful hindquarters relax and sink to the ground. Hardly able to believe my eyes, I watched Lo Si carefully stroking the tiger's head, his other hand moving down over the top part of its body but not quite touching.

Peter and I stood there gaping. The spell was quickly broken as several vehicles pulled up to the far side of the grassy stretch of lawn. A crowd had begun to gather, but it stayed far away, behind a rapidly-deploying line of police officers. A couple of the officers carrying rifles began scrambling through the crowd. The cavalry had obviously arrived.

I turned my attention back to the tiger, which still sat docilely beside Lo Si. Even as the sharpshooters sought a clear shot, I saw the scene before me change subtly. Instead of a fierce and vicious beast about to kill an old man, there was only a hurting, hungry, terrified animal, and a human nearby offering comfort. I blinked. The image remained. I could see the tiger's shrunken sides, bony vertebrae poking through matted, lusterless fur. Several long scars crossed the wide face and nose, and one eye was half-closed and runny.

Incredibly, I found myself taking a few steps closer, even as Peter drew back, his gun no longer trained on the tiger.

Ironically, I recalled something Caine had said to me once, about turning to face the tiger. He'd meant it metaphorically, not literally, trying to get me to look at the secret fears that hid in the darkness of my soul. But still –

"No!" Lo Si called out loudly across the expanse of lawn separating us from our would-be rescuers. "Do not kill her!"

Peter slipped further away, moving with the same easy grace I'd often envied in his father. He covered the distance to the police line with incredible quickness. I saw him talking earnestly to the officer who seemed to be in charge.

And still the tiger remained quiet under the Ancient's gentling hands. I debated slipping away as Peter had done, but found myself too hypnotized by watching the Ancient to be able to move.

In what seemed the space of only a few heartbeats, Peter was back. He touched my shoulder in reassurance as he passed me, then moved closer to the old man and the beast, holding something out in one hand. 

"This is filled with a tranquilizer. Can you keep her calm, while I inject it? If not, they're going to shoot her. The tranquilizer won't take effect fast enough, if she goes for us."

"I will try," Lo Si replied. "Do it, Peter."

I didn't so much as breathe as Peter moved in and deftly plunged the hypo into the tiger's flank. She jerked once at the minor pain but otherwise kept her attention on the Ancient. Peter touched the scarred hide also, imitating the older priest's motions, murmuring soothing words as the beast slowly relaxed and rolled down onto one side, her eyes finally closing as she lapsed into unconsciousness.

Then it was all over, and we were thronged by police and animal control people taking charge of the situation.

 

After everything had been sorted out, Lo Si gathered Peter and me together and told us to come with him. We looked at each other and shrugged, but did as ordered, following the old man along a path until we came out near that very same fountain I had spent time contemplating much earlier in the day. Darkness was falling around us now, but the water glistened in the hard radiance of a nearby streetlamp.

Lo Si turned to us at last. "You are troubled," he said, "both by what just happened, and by your lives in general."

Peter nodded, while I bit my lips and looked at the fountain.

"What you did with the tiger --" Peter began hesitantly.

Lo Si nodded, but said nothing, encouraging the young man to go on.

"That's what a real Master can do, isn't it? And I'm not a real Master. I've been pretending to be what I'm not. That's why it's not working."

"Very good, young Caine. I have been wondering how long it would take you to realize that. But what are you? And what is to be the path you follow?"

"I don't know. I'm confused. Lost – " Peter shook his head in frustration.

With a pang, I realized he could be speaking for me also.

The Ancient nodded. Then he waved one hand at the pool of water beside us.

"Sit. Watch the fountain. Learn what it can teach you."

Peter and I glanced at each other then we each sat down where Lo Si had indicated, on the flat top of the rock wall surrounding the pool. I had the good sense not to attempt a half lotus position, since I knew I couldn't hold it for very long. And let's not even mention full-lotus, okay? Perhaps Peter could do that one, but I sure couldn't. It was uncomfortable enough just sitting there tailor-fashion on the hard rock. In no time at all, my rear felt cold and numb, while my back and knees ached dully. One leg seemed to be falling asleep.

This was getting me exactly nowhere, except more frustrated and upset. I can't do this meditation stuff real well. My mind just keeps running on and on.

I closed my eyes, trying vainly to focus on my breathing. Nope. That didn't work either. What was there to keep me from getting up and walking away? This was clearly a waste of time.

I opened my eyes again. Lo Si sat peacefully on the hard rock wall halfway between me and Peter. He was so still I could barely tell if he was breathing. His entire attitude radiated a sense of total relaxation combined with intense concentration.

"Watch the fountain," he had said. "Learn what it can teach you."

With a growing sense of impatience, I watched. I saw the same thing I had seen this morning: the ungainly cluster of twisted metal pieces, the water slipping over dull greenish-brown surfaces, following the inexorable pull of gravity down towards the earth. Although I faced it now from a different angle, I still could see a number of lonely trickles and streams that seemed to have made a wrong turn somewhere and taken the long way around. For a brief moment, my eye was caught by a hanging droplet trembling at the sharp edge of a curled bronze lip. It hesitated, gathering strength and substance enough to allow it to let go and plunge down to the next level. When it finally fell, it splatted into the middle of a broad and almost flat triangular piece, then began a painfully slow crawl onwards.

So? What was I supposed to learn from this? 

I shook my head in disgust. The slight motion allowed the corner of my eye to catch a glimpse of someone sitting next to me, where no one had been just a moment ago. Even before I turned my head, I knew who it was.

Caine had that enigmatic half-smile that I knew so well on his face. "Jeremy, you are ... confused?"

"Yeah, you might say that. And now I'm even more confused. What are you doing here?"

He gestured at our surroundings. "I am ... not here," was the cryptic reply.

"Oh, that makes everything much clearer. I've gone totally off my rocker and am imagining this whole thing."

"That is ... one way to look at it," Caine admitted.

"Okay. You're not here and I just think I'm talking to you. So now what?"

"Now you will ... look again at the fountain."

"I'd rather look at you."

He sighed. "That ... is the problem."

"Problem?" I repeated stupidly.

"Yes," he said, narrowing his eyes at me. "What am I ... to you?" 

That was a tough one. I couldn't answer immediately. Caine waited patiently while I searched for the words.

"I don't know. I just know I see you, and how you act, and I think to myself that I want to be like that. I want to know how you do it. And I don't mean the fancy martial arts, or even the seemingly impossible stuff. I mean the love and the caring, the peace and the calm, the way you can connect with people and touch – what? – their hearts? Their souls? That's what I want to learn."

I shrugged uncomfortably, still searching for a way to put it into words that would make sense. "I guess you're a role model. Someone who shows me it's possible to be good and honest and admirable in a world that laughs at such simple concepts. You're strong and gentle both at the same time." 

Something I'd read popped into my mind. "As it says in the Tao, 'Know the strength of man, but keep a woman's care'."

Caine nodded, apparently familiar with the verse.

"You're everything I wish I could be, but I'm not," I finished lamely.

"Jeremy, do you know what it is that you are describing ? It is the traditional concept of Master/student. You wish to learn what you feel I can teach you. Is this not so?"

I considered for several long moments. Was it really that simple? Yeah, maybe it was. "I once told myself that I would gladly step off the edge of the earth with you, simply in order to follow you and learn from you."

Caine nodded. "That ... is it." Then he fixed me with that look that seems to see into your very being and asked, "But ... is that all?"

I almost lied and said it was.

"No, not quite," I admitted ruefully. "You – know the rest."

"Yes. I know that you – desire me."

I nodded my head, not trusting my voice. Then he asked me the last question I ever expected to hear.

"Jeremy, ... if you had a choice, which would you want most? Me as a ... lover, or as a Master?"

I couldn't quite suppress a bitter laugh. "Isn't that obvious from the way I've acted with you all along?"

"No, it is not. You have always known I am not ... gay. What if the choice were yours?"

This was a new concept for me. What if Caine were in fact gay, and could potentially return my feelings for him? It took a while to turn it over in my mind.

"Master," I concluded at last. "I can find lovers elsewhere, but not a Master like you."

He nodded, apparently pleased with my answer. "That which you attempt to be ... is what you will eventually become, so be sure it is something you can live with."

"Well, there are worse things to want to be than you, aren't there?"

"Yes," he said simply. "But you must be sure you do not confuse the outward seeming with the inward being. One must love the truths to be taught more than the teacher who teaches them."

"I know," I admitted uneasily. "But -- "

He cut me off with an upraised hand. "In your study of things Chinese, ... what have you found to be of value?"

"Does it really matter? After all, I'm not Chinese. This isn't my culture."

"Truth ... is not only Chinese. Love ... is not only Chinese. Honor ... is not only Chinese. What you have found that is of meaning to you ... that you must keep. All else is shadow, not substance. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Jeremy, ... you cannot be ... me."

"I know that. But without you, I don't know who I am."

"You ... do know. Here ... " He placed the palm of one hand lightly against my chest. "And here." With the other hand, he touched the side of my head. "You are ... " He shrugged ... "Jeremy. And you must be ... Jeremy."

I shook my head in fierce denial, tears running from my eyes, moisture fogging my glasses. It isn't worth being me. I'm nothing special. Just your average human being, fumbling through life as best I can.

Caine smiled gently, as if he had heard my unspoken thought. Then he repeated something he had said to me once before, a long time ago. "Each life ... is special, yours no less than mine."

"But – "

He shook his head and raised one hand, palm towards me to stop my objection.

"Take what you have learned from me ... and use it to find your way through the darkness and into the light. It ... will not always be easy ..." He took my hands, turning them over so I could see the edges of the thin white scars on my wrists just below the loose sleeves of my T'ai Chi jacket ... "But it can be done."

The scars on my wrists reminded me abruptly of something that had happened earlier that day.

"Has Peter learned this lesson?" I asked Caine.

"Not yet. But I will tell him, as I am telling you."

He smiled that gentle smile of his. "Now ... look again at the fountain ... and see with more than your eyes."

I knew this was a dismissal of sorts, but I didn't want to let him go. Catching his hand, I asked wretchedly, "This is good-bye, isn't it? You're not coming back?"

As usual, Caine shrugged. "No one may know ... the future."

"But you think --?"

"I think ... I will not see you again," he admitted, gently withdrawing his hand from my grasp.

I fought the gathering tears. "But -- you will be with me?" I put one hand over my breaking heart. "Here?"

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Always."

I took a shaky breath, bowed to him, and turned sadly to the falling water, knowing full well Caine wouldn't be beside me if I turned back. The last thing I heard was his voice saying gently, "Jeremy, ... in the end ... you are your only Master."

I stared dutifully at the fountain, through tears that ran as freely as the water I was watching.

And this time, I saw something I hadn't seen before. 

No two drops follow exactly the same path, but they can all reach the pool. Some go directly in sparkling cascades of water, some meander in rivulets and streams across slick, smooth metal surfaces, some follow a tortuous path from level to level over jagged edges and through slicing twists. Some, like me, might go the long way around, splatting on out-of-the-way pieces of greenish copper and crawling slowly across paths arid with depression and despair, and yet dripping down at last and coming to rest in the placid waters below, when the journey is done.

Go to wherever this path ends for you. Then drop off onto something going in another direction. Or perhaps from here you fall all the way into the pool? Who can know for sure?

How much does it matter what paths we follow, so long as we reach the same end?

And when we do reach the end, is it over? The water goes on to evaporate, turn to clouds, rain down again.

Follow the path until you reach the end -- and then look around for the beginning of the next path. For the journey never truly ends.

I don't have any idea how long I sat there staring at the fountain. It may have been seconds or minutes or hours. All I know is that it was getting dark when I became aware of Peter's voice and blinked myself into ordinary awareness again and paid attention to what he was saying.

"I'm going about this all wrong somehow, but I don't know what I should be doing. If I don't follow my father's path, what do I do? Damnit, Lo Si, I just don't know enough yet!"

The Ancient smiled and nodded. "The brands were a beginning, not an end. You are trying to be a Shaolin Master before you have even learned what it is to be a Shaolin priest. There are many ways of being Shaolin. Your father chose one way. You could choose another."

"But I don't have any idea of where to begin," he objected.

"Start with what you know," the old man said gently.

I stood up on legs that were numb and tingling. "This may be a totally dumb suggestion, but have you ever considered teaching Kung Fu? You certainly know that aspect of it well enough."

"Me? Teach?" Peter looked doubtfully at Lo Si, who cocked his head in my direction and raised one eyebrow. 

From the slight smile on the old man's face, I concluded I had said the right thing, so I went on. "I'll bet you'd be a wicked good martial arts instructor. You've got the fighting down pat, anyway." A further inspiration struck me. "You could probably re-open your father's old kwoon, if you wanted to."

Peter looked at the Ancient. "Is that what you had in mind?"

"It is just one of many possibilities, young Caine. As Jeremy has said, you are surely not deficient in your knowledge of the Shaolin fighting arts. And it would be a good place to begin."

"Yeah, it might at that. And I could have special classes for problem kids. You know, try to get them back on track again? I could get the folks at the 101st involved. They'd know which kids would benefit from such a thing. And I could --"

The Ancient laughed and held up a hand to stop the flow of words. "Enough, Peter. You could do all that and more. The question is, do you wish to?"

"I'm not sure. I guess I need to think this through a bit. It might be a good idea."

"But if you do it, do it your way, not your father's," I put in. I caught Peter's troubled eyes, meeting them as squarely as I could. "Because in the end, you are your only Master," I finished, deliberately using Caine's words to me. 

Peter's face registered his surprise, and then his quick understanding. "He told you that too?"

I nodded, trying to keep my composure. I didn't want to break down in front of Peter. I was reasonably sure Caine hadn't told his son good-bye, as he had me. Surely, he would see Peter again, someday.

Lo Si glanced knowingly at us. Behind him the water dripped steadily into the pool below the fountain, and a streetlamp flashed into life beside the fountain, lighting up the growing darkness of the oncoming night.

 

Peter made a lot of changes in his life after that day. As may be expected, he stopped trying so hard to be his father and became himself instead.

And me? Well, I never saw Kwai Chang Caine again. About a year later, I moved away, after getting a job offer I couldn't refuse from a hospital in Alaska. I've never regretted leaving Sloan City. But even though I've moved on to other places, other people, other interests, I'll always remember Caine, and the lessons I learned during the time I was lucky enough to spend with him. I still hear his soft voice in my head now and then, and see him smiling at me the way he did beside that fountain. Some things you just never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short blurb here. In addition to fanfiction, I also write original ebooks under the name of Karl Five for erotica and as KL Schaefer for science fiction. They are all free, since I'm more interested in readers than dollars. Those ebooks may be found on Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and iBooks, but not on Amazon, since they won't allow an author to list all of their works as free.  
> For this story you just read, I must admit that I used a very similar version of Jeremy Langsten as the main character and also used a few of the events in the above story in my ebook, which is a Male/Male Romance called the Rick&Jerry Series. Yes, it is erotica and very graphic, but Kwai Chang Caine does not appear in this series.


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